Four Knots In the Web
by Lex Q. Coverdale
Summary: A SPARTAN's descendant. The last of his squad. One girl with too many nightmares of a planet long fallen. In a collection of chapters, the web of fate will weave them together as a broken, fallen being stands at its centre. -*HIATUS; Multi-Canon Halo AU*-
1. The Warrior: Prologue I

_(Halo & ILoveBees (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators. Text (c) L.Q. Coverdale. Content includes mentions of death, violence, minor thematic material and some inappropriate, uncensored language. This fic is on the harder end of the PG-13 scale; viewer discretion is advised.)_**  
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**- _The Warrior_: Prologue I -**

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_**Janissary:** A member of a group of elite, highly loyal supporters._

_~ YourDictionary_

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_Shoot, shoot, duck and cover. Wait, take a breath, then fire. Fire again and again, then wait for him to fall. Get up, run, shoot, repeat. Again and again came the dance of survival, the dance of traded blows, death but a wrong move away. Every scrap of military manoeuvring knowledge was dug out from the recesses of her brain, the mercenary's sharp mind as agile in working as her muscles and bones. Cat's reflexes drew her downwards, the roar of a missile hurtling closer until the clumsy weapon smashed a small tree's trunk into a thousand pieces. The thick, low wall that separated the ex-garden from the sunken footpath saved her hide from shrapnel.

For Janissary James, that was one of many ordinary days.

The rainforest belt of Tatara were never quiet. Strange, alien beasts, from giant porcupine-pig crosses to feathered serpents straight out of Mayan mythology, squawked and croaked and hissed and screeched. The rushing of the swift river beside her could not drown out the gunfire around her, chattering and banging and popping like fireworks on Independence Day. Her breath was heavy with exertion, the package strapped tightly to her waist, the uncomfortably tight belt digging into her hips and lower abdomen. _What a shitty day to start a period._

Despite the uncomfortable, clenching cramps that wracked her lower backside, her legs worked like a racehorse's, taking her over log and through mud to her destination. The _squelch _of sinking feet, muck-filled combat boots and bullets through flesh grated on Janissary's nerves; she couldn't figure out anymore what was what. With a headache setting in from heat, hormones and noise, all Jan wanted to do was crawl up in her hammock and fall asleep. She had been trying to get around the bastards since the dark of the morning_._

With a huff, Jan vaulted over a log, slick with something mossy and something composed of green slime. Arcing away from the muddied river, vines and something like ferns slapped by her scrambling form, Jan made for the deep forest. The river was a popular traffic point for merchants, traffickers and mercenaries like herself, and her pursuers had already called in reinforcements from up the stream. However, with stories of the highly poisonous "Tataran cockatrice" and other said monsters living in the rainforest proper, nobody was going to come after her. Suicide awaited those trapped by its poisonous plants, myriad of sinkholes and salivating creepy-crawlies. Jan only survived because of her One-Point-One enhancements, as well as a knowing of the inner forest thanks to the right sources.

Machine gun fire prattled off behind her like the angry chatters of a red squirrel. It lit up the further-darkening forests in brief flashes, slicing through plants and smaller, more unfortunate creatures clinging to them. Jan kept her head low, weaving in and around the foliage, eyes peeled for hostile fauna. The aforementioned Tataran cockatrice liked to lay flat against the ground, coloured in a manner suggestive of leaf-littered dirt. Then, when stepped on or approached, it whirled around and bit down with fangs full of necrotic venom. It was powerful enough to eat through a man's leg in _seconds_ - Jan had once seen a poor soul nearly eaten, screaming in pain as he clutched at a foul-smelling, blackened leg. Jan could stomach many things, but the blood-dripping, oozing scab of a local's limb had nearly made her puke.

Sliding down a large, gnarled root, Jan pushed off and leapt forward, cursing as the ground crumbled beneath her on impact. The snap of wood and crumble of bark and soil gave way to a twig-filled fall. Crashing through the winding, fragile tendrils of some arching bush she couldn't name, Jan hit the loose ground hard below. Spitting and curses could be heard as she wiped off her face, coughing, standing up with a horrible stomach pain as the cramps shifted from her back. Gritting her teeth, Jan was tempted to pull at her hair and scream, but instead, she raced forward through the gully before her. The package clacked and shifted against her side, its metallic, harnessed self barely visible. She was deep in the undergrowth, where there could be so little light, it seemed as if night reigned every hour of the day. Chemiluminescent beings were sometimes the only thing standing between pitch darkness and the ability to see all.

She could hear shouts and running still somewhere behind her. However, they were far more distant and faint, and not as eager - more patient, more hesitant, pausing more often than not. Of course they wouldn't move deeper, just as Jan had -

_**BANG!**_

Scratch that - they were still in range.

Jan put on a burst of speed as someone with a shotgun fired down into the gully. There was no cover, and even her unusually keen eyesight couldn't discern man from plant. The shooter must have been wearing camo; it would make sense he would. Jan unhooked a smoke grenade from her belt, yanking out the pin and tossing it roughly in the direction of the shots fired. It went clacking up into the bush, wild crunches from the shooter telling her he was retreating back.

**_BAM!_**

The gully came alive with serpents' hissing, and it wasn't just the smoke that was pouring out from the grenade. From the edge of the gully above, something long and with a feathery mane shot upwards, giving a great snarl at the sudden, loud noise. Feathered serpents had terrible hearing, but were highly sensitive to powerful, sudden bursts of vibration. Such bursts were like using a dog whistle on an angry wolf pack, and Jan could hear the shooter's final scream as the serpent opened its jaws. A wet crunch moments later signified that the snake had just found itself a new meal.

_Serves you right, _Jan thought with a grin - only for that grin to disappear as the hissing, bloodied snout of the serpent plunged through the bushes. With a long, forked tongue, sticky in a way not unlike a chameleon's, it scented the air. Through the blood clogging its olfactory sensors, it detected the bloody, feminine, sweaty odour of the young mercenary, and with purpose, it came down and slithered forward.

With another string of unpleasant language, Janissary took out a second grenade, this time a run-of-the-mill plasma variant. Yanking out the pin with vehemence, she aimed as best she could in the lack of light. With an angry snarl, the plasma grenade was hurled towards the centre of the snake's forehead. The snake, smelling plasma, gave a wheezy roar and shot forward.

The two elements of destruction collided in a gooey, glowing mess as Jan ran for her life, fragments flying everywhere.

* * *

With her back peppered with animal and grenade pieces, Jan dizzily burst out from the undergrowth, bullets bursting forward from the guns on a boat nearby. Instead of cursing, she rolled behind a rock, taking a few nicks to one side's arm, leg and shoulder. Take a deep breath, the Spartan One-Point-One flew forward, a flurry of mud and green kicked out from under her feet. She could feel the tannin-soaked waters of the river seeping into her feet and wrinkling them in the worst way. The water caused the belt to clench and tighten, and Jan shoved a hand in between her and the belt to try and ease the pressure off her torso. As usual, the package clanked, unheard in its thoughts on being carried around so roughly, as Jan made for a rope bridge strung across the length of the river. She was met by machine gun fire exploding from the bushes in front of her.

_Oh, hell!_

With an agile leap and roll, Jan yanked out her twin Magnums again, firing madly out from behind a thick tree. Three of the five men firing at her dropped in just a few minutes. Despite this, their comrades charged forward, causing Jan to dart off the side and back into the forest. She ran as fast as she could; dammit, she was getting low on ammo -

The rounds of a sniper rifle took apart the heads of her newest chasers. Jan turned around just in time to see a dark-skinned twenty-something reload his rifle. He grinned at Janissary, who was glaring back in return, her rescuer saying, "Miss me?"

"Oh be quiet and take the damn thing already!" snapped Jan, undoing the package and tossing it at her comrade. He yelped as he caught the metal container, Jan sprinting towards the bridge as the boat-riding gunmen came closer. Her fingers quickly undid a pair of plasma grenades, and she raced onto the fragile, wooden crossing.

With a few choice words, nearly at the other side as the gunmen fired along the structure, Jan pitched the plasma weapons at her pursuers. One stuck to the side of the boat, the other onto a turret, and both exploded with great force. Yelping and tumbling, the gunmen fell into the vicious current, where their wounded selves would be swept to the nearest waterfall if the piranha-like "gulpers" didn't try swallowing pieces whole first.

* * *

"You said you were going to cover me."

"Hey, unlike you, _I _had to sit and wait in the middle of a snake nest."

"You _said _you were going to cover me!"

Jan's hands slammed down on the table as she glared at Sevens Harrison - and yes, that was his real name, as his father had a thing for lucky numbers. Sevens, grinning sheepishly, rubbed the back of his head.

"Hey hey now, One-Point, let's not be too hasty. I mean, we got away in the end, didn't we?"

"_Barely_," growled Jan. "I've been running around for hours, and I swear to _God_ that even _I'm_ on my last leg. The bridge is damaged, I nearly got eaten alive, and my back is _killing _me! Do you know how much _Monthly-Be-Gone _I had to take? Do you?"

Sevens winced backwards, holding up his hands in surrender. The One-Point-One looked ready to blow a gasket if she had another cramping spell. "Yeaaaah ... I have an idea."

"Gentlemen!"

The pair quickly stood at attention as Sevens's employer, Roald Stevenson, entered. With him was Trisha, Sevens's mother and his aide, her copper skin dirt-streaked but her dark hair immaculate. The mercenary leader stepped up to the rough-hewn table between his employees, slapping down a pair of hastily written-on papers.

"Excellent work, the both of you. The theft from the convoy was a bit sloppy in itself, but no one, so far, has been able to trace you through the jungle. Jan, superb work in taking down that boat; Sevens told me your aim was flawless. Sevens, next time, make sure to check which tree you perch in before settling down."

"Yes sir," said Sevens with a frown. Jan said nothing, turning her head to watch as her employer reached into his pocket. Produced was a wad of cash, shoved towards Janissary and deftly snatched up by her. Roald grinned a knowing grin, causing Jan to furrow her brows at him. He chuckled.

"Don't worry, Ms. James. Everything is there that you asked for; ammunition money, supply money, and compensation for your injuries sustained in this hunt. We have the food and water you requested waiting out back, along with a boat to replace the one you lost last week."

"Thank you sir," said Jan, nodding. She went to turn around, head out the door and finally get what she needed -

"But I'm not done with you yet."

Jan muttered something foul under her breath.

* * *

"The AI unit, despite our best cryptographers' attempts, refuses to open," said Roald, motioning towards the many formulae, calculations and notes scribbled onto book and loose leaf alike by Roald's men. "It appears that this is Level 10 Encryption, just a step away from the encryption used for the most sensitive documents the UNSC has to offer."

"And you want me to deliver it to ... ?"

"He calls himself Reginald, or Reggie for short," said Roald. "He's one of my best contacts for this kind of work. He knows a picklock who has a few interesting tricks of his own. Said picklock prefers to work anonymously, so he uses Reggie as a proxy for orders. He lives a few days down the river, in the old Covenant settlement."

Jan took the map that was produced from Roald's vest pocket. Tired eyes scanned over a myriad of landmarks, the map of the area hastily drawn over with marker to point out "Reggie's" whereabouts. Jan's eyes flickered upwards, a scowl of distaste thrown towards her employer.

"This is cockatrice territory."

"So?"

"They lay their eggs beneath the old growth there, and it happens to be close to breeding season."

"You'll find a way around them," said Roald with a grin. "You single-handedly held down a ten-mile stretch of bank while Sevens was trying to avoid being snake food."

"Only at the cost of being made target practice."

Roald laughed. "Nothing ever comes easy in life, my dear," he said. "You, of all people, should know that. Don't you still owe a few _favours_ for getting here in the first place."

Jan's expression only darkened further. "Favours" was just a synonym for more murder when it came to dealing with Roald and his "contacts". "When do I leave?"

"The next few hours," said Roald. "Reggie will be heading north shortly. It will be my last chance to get this unit to the proper people for the next week, and I have customers waiting on me for the unlocked product."

"Are you sure you can't get anyone - "

"No, Jan," said Roald, giving her a look. "I've told you once and I'll tell you again: we _need_ as few people as possible in order for this to work. There are far greater things in mind I have at stake than whether or not you have purified water for a few days."

"Hey!" snapped Jan. "Look buddy, I've been your errand girl for the past two weeks, and you've given me close to crap! I owe you? You _still _owe me for the jobs last week! I nearly got strangled by a tree, a goddamn living _tree _- "

"It's called a_ theyateveo_."

"Whatever! I didn't sign up to become _fertilizer_. I have to get off of this rock sooner rather than later, and all you're doing is delaying me! What is your _problem_, Stevenson? Don't you have anyone else to do your dirty work?"

"You're the only one I can trust to keep quiet, Janissary," said Stevenson. "Besides, you've got a bounty on your head for being an accomplice. I could turn you in if I wanted to; they still haven't figured out what happened to the _item_ at Chawla Base. It's quite the pretty little reward they're offering for information, my dear Jan. Care to take the chance?"

"I could kill you, you know. Right here, right now."

"Maybe," said Roald as a Magnum was cocked and pointed at him. "But I've got eyes everywhere, James. They're hiding in the strangest of places, but they're there. This entire room is bugged, as is every other one in the building. You paint the walls red, and the clean-up crew's not going to be happy to you. They work _so _hard to keep everything neat and tidy."


	2. The Watchful Eyes: Prologue II

_(Halo & ILoveBees (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators. Text (c) L.Q. Coverdale. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate, uncensored language. This fic is on the harder end of the PG-13 scale; viewer discretion is advised.)_**  
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**- _The Watchful Eye_s: Prologue II -**

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_**JUN (**_順_**): **Japanese unisex name meaning "obedient".  
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_~ 20000-Names_

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_Wait, watch and let it rest. Take a breath, pause, cock gun. Aim for the dead centre of the trunk, near the whitish patch bulging with syrup. Squeeze, fire, pull back as it shrieked. The _theyateveo_, feared man-eating tree of the Tataran rainforests, flailed its great, thorny limbs. Its toxin-ridden vines curled back, wrapping protectively around the white-bleeding digestive sac at its centre. Hellish jaws not unlike a toothy pitcher plant's snapped at the top of the tree, the alien plant wrapping its own tendrils around itself to look smaller. Its thorns bulged, meant to drive off that which tried to harm it so. The sniper saw his chance, and fled.

Jun-A266 knew when to pick his battles, and taking on a fully-grown _theyateveo_ was suicide.

He hurried through the undergrowth while his target was distracted. Why people kept thinking the resilient plant was a pushover, Jun would never know. The man-eater was fire-resistant, immune to several well-known pesticides, could disguise itself as a bramble thicket and was known to swallow entire large birds whole. The best thing one could do was distract it, and run fast enough to get out range before it whipped its vines around. Jun nearly avoided getting his head sliced open by a wayward vine as he got a little too close for comfort to the _theyateveo_. He frowned, glancing back just once, before diving back into the bush.

Tatara was not his kind of planet. While he was used to a warm climate from his birthplace, the stifling, wet, constantly noisy forests were not ideal sniping conditions. Added were the numerous, _poisonous_ creatures that were everywhere - in the dirt, burrowing out of bark, even _falling from the canopy_ - and he was as paranoid as a chicken around a fox. He had been nearly eaten twice already, and something long and slithering - thankfully or not thankfully, not a feathered serpent - had been trailing him a couple of times.

As the _theyateveo_ could be heard unfurling and settling down in the distance, Jun's mind was turning. Somewhere nearby was his one chance to find a space elevator in one of the planet's most barely-inhabited regions - and for good reason. Not even Earth's Amazon, full of mystery and ferocious animals as small and withered as it was, could compare to Tatara's savagery. It was also one of the reasons why Jun was so desperate to leave; luck was not on his side in the rainforests. He was tired of having to fight off everything in sight, and just wanted to go home. Despite the painful memories and Covenant ravaging, all he could think about was getting to back to Tyumen in one piece.

Kat. Carter. Jorge. Emile. Six. All of them gone, one by one. They had done their duty, but it was useless. With the war now over and the wounds of the mind still raw, Jun constantly pushed their memory to the back of his mind. Perhaps it had been foolish to refuse another round of psychiatric treatment; his thoughts had become very clouded since Reach. Countless other sniping missions he had been thrown into, working with hundreds - if not thousands - of UNSC personnel. He could remember a few with an odd personality quirk or manner of speech, but they were not Noble Team. They were his assignment, and he was duty-bound to working with them. That didn't mean he had to enjoy it, however, nor pay them much attention.

But that business was long gone and over. After the war had ended, he had asked to leave. When controversy about letting a SPARTAN-III loose without post-war psych work rose up, he had run. The guard hadn't seen him coming, and one shot - one little click and a pop, like a stapler gun - had earned Jun a Hornet to go wherever he wanted. He didn't need the military, or its doctors, or more modifications being made to his bod than there already were. He needed peace, quiet and safety, so foreign a concept to the Tataran tropics. Then, and only then, might he forget the tragedy that was Reach, and what had become of the others. Perhaps he should have let Halsey go by herself, as she had insisted.

Pushing back a large, hairy fern, Jun stepped carefully over a large, slimy log. The green goo that was simply known as "scum" dripped everywhere, plopping down in viscous piles that reminded Jun of translucent glue. It was like an algae, only land-based, and one of the main components of the Tataran food cycle. Yet, it could make a human incredibly sick if consumed in large quantities; it took several bouts of purification before scum-infested water could be ingested. Some of the immigrants who Jun had parted with days earlier had nearly killed themselves not following proper sanitation procedures. What kind of person would randomly drink water that had been lying around unattended? Furthermore, who the _hell_ would want to _live _in one of the most dangerous areas on a planet known to man?

Jun's mind was beginning to wander. "Chatty" they had called him on the radio, sometimes nattering on and on without paying attention to his rifle scope. Too much attention being attracted, more focus needed on the horizon; Jun wasn't always the most perceptive person -

"AH!"

- And it showed as he slid down the side of something muddy, violet-stained and twig-ridden.

Jun was stunned by the fall - that is, the fall into a pile of indigo-painted _guts_, of all things. He immediately jumped up and staggered back, staring at a mangled pile of flesh, bone and scale. Looking around, he saw the fragmented remains of a serpentine head, and the purple-oozing body it had once been attached to. With one hand, he wiped the mess off with a grimace, studying the gore in his palm. By the feel of it, the death had been recent, and the damage patterns suggested it had run into an explosive of some sort.

_Lovely._

Jun wiped his hand on his already-filthy trousers. Looking around cautiously, he held his rifle at the ready, stepping with stealth through the flesh-laden part of the gully. A quick switch of his rifle scope to night vision - technology, how he loved it so - revealed that the path he walked upon had been disturbed. Boot prints, heavy step, slid in different directions at some point; someone had been running, most likely for their life. It hadn't been hard to put two and two together once Jun had noticed the tracks.

He followed the tracks out of the gully, for want of a better way out of the forest other than wandering around aimlessly. It brought him to the snaking Leticia River, muddy and winding as always; Jun smiled slightly. He had been looking for that particular river, as it was a major transport route, a highway in itself to merchants, settlements, the odd military outpost further down ... and space elevators.

_Go to the end of the Leticia, where it flows via waterfall into Lake Quetzalcoatl. _The infamous lake named for its feathered serpent breeding grounds - where else to put a space elevator not always used by the best of people? Jun hurried along the bank, careful to watch his step so he didn't slip and fall. The mud sucked at his feet, nearly making him stumble -

_SNAP!_

_

* * *

_

_Tasty human. Tasty man-flesh. Dirt, don't mind dirt, blood nice and warm and drippy. He struggle, he try and kick off, but I hold tight - real, real tight. He yelp as I give him a little shocky-shocky, but he not struggle long! My big jaws clamp tighter, tighter, as he fight. He fight good, really good -_

_**BANG!**_

* * *

Jun scurried back from the riverbank, cursing fiercely as his hands held onto the large, ragged bite to his calf. His rifle dropped to the ground The gulper - a hellish mix of gulper eel, piranha and electric eel - writhed one last time as the round that cut it in half ceased its existence. It was a good thing the damn monster wasn't venomous; Jun already had too many different antivenin bottles in his field kit, and he didn't need more to confuse him in a moment of need. The little bastard had zapped him, too, and not only was his leg smarting, it was tingling uncomfortably.

With a growl, Jun reached for the aforementioned field kit, quickly removing a peroxide bottle and bandages. Living in such remoteness meant that more efficient, less crude methods - such as the use of biofoam - were available less often than not. Furthermore, Jun had to move quickly; like sharks, gulpers had an excellent sense of smell, and went into a feeding frenzy if they caught the scent of blood. Wincing, he gently poured peroxide onto the bite, wishing for a clean cloth right about then -

The ground suddenly bulged and writhed with a dozen - and counting - wriggling, brown-black bodies. Jun spat a foul word in some Asian language or another - he knew both Chinese and Japanese, so he had a tendency to alternate (or even merge) when at his worst - and scrambled backwards, precious peroxide slopping everywhere. His eyes were saucer-wide, and he clumsily grabbed at the rifle he had forgot to shoulder.

What had to be a whole nest of gulpers was eyeing him hungrily, slithering clumsily along the ground as fast as their mucous-covered bodies would allow. Jun panted, fumbling for his gun -

_Covenant dropping everywhere_

_Beams of plasma flying, shattering_

_The taste of hot, disturbed dust on the air -_

No. He couldn't start losing it now. He could already hear the growling of a hallucination - or was that the gulpers making those strange, hungry little grumbles. They sounded like Grunts on a bad day. Jun levelled his rifle with the head of a particularly fat one.

**_BANG!_**

The round took apart most of its head, the vibrations from the impact causing the others to scatter. A small "hole" in the horde formed, the gulpers avoiding the spot where their comrade had fallen. They concentrated themselves in slick, oily rivers to the side, still struggling over each other and across the mud to where Jun had fallen.

* * *

_Reach._

_He could hear Kat's frantic chatter about radiation. He could hear Jorge fighting with Emile about how to treat a civilian girl. He could see himself leaving, Carter ordering him by Halsey's side onto the ship. He could see Six stalking after him on that impossibly thin cliff, approaching their target, guns ready to aim at the next Covenant head that passed by. Fangs and swords tore at him._

The Skirmishers that pinned him turned serpentine and slimy. Jun tore one off his arm as a particularly fish-like Grunt went after his leg, another one of the little shits trying to grab his rifle. He punched the former and kicked at the latter, only for the little prawn to sink its teeth into his good leg. How were they breathing without their special gas tanks? Those things were practically suicide bombs when set on fire. The Grunts breathed methane, apparently - imagine that. What would have strangled a human alive was the only thing keeping them moving in battle.

_They had been picked off, one by one. Jorge had broken apart a ship with only a slipspace drive. Kat had been nailed in the back of the head with a lucky Covenant round. Carter, Six and Emile were KIA, deaths unknown, although Jun had heard Emile had been impaled by an energy sword. Had he been there, he would have put a round through that bastard's head; Emile would still have been sharpening his kukri, complaining about how Jun had stolen his kill._

_Typical._

He was back in the real world, and the gulpers were quickly overwhelming him, seizing onto whatever flesh they could. Jun stood like a bear, caught in a net of carnivorous mucous, and began ripping and tearing them off of him left and right. His SPARTAN enhancements were helping him take the pain well enough, now that he was in full battle mode. Still, gulpers had excruciatingly painful bites, and worse, they were digging into Jun's body like a wild pack of dogs. He scrambled towards the forest, trying to get away from the riverbank, the gulpers only wriggling after him. Some managing to start crawling up his legs again, and his gun was dropped onto a few others as two locked tightly onto his wrist.

_Hopeless._

_That was how the battle had ended - Pyrrhic and hopeless, for the most part. Yes, some had escaped Reach, but the last military stronghold of humanity had fallen. The alien tide was coming in fast, and so many soldiers had been expended. The SPARTAN-IIs, Jun had heard, had been almost wiped out entirely, and so many SPARTAN-IIIs were either KIA or MIA. He couldn't get it out of his head - the last things he had heard from them, to make sure nothing happened to Halsey ... And eventually, she disappeared too._

Blood was oozing down and splattering against the ground. Several sharp, painful shocks, as if touching a sparking wire for a moment, pounded at Jun's wounds. He cried out, trying desperately to pull off the bastards, panic racing around in his mind and in his blood. Adrenaline, coupled with his unnatural strength, crushed the supple necks and bodies of the gulpers like flies. The rest of the horde no longer followed him, unable to struggle their way up into the gully. Their brethren could last ten minutes outside of water, and it was either them or him. Their jaws had locked in finality to take down their prey.

_Tyumen._

_The vast, Japanese gardens that decorated the more luxurious places. The legendary tea houses that served brews from across entire solar systems. The vast groves of bamboo and azalea, cherry trees and plum blossoms. Chinese and Japanese peoples and cultures, all swirling, walking about, a speck of a memory in Jun's exhausted mind. He could taste the nectar from the blooming flowers on his tongue ..._

There had to be at least ten of them still caught on him. Jun ripped, tore and pulled, bits of purple gore mixing with the flesh of the beheaded serpent, and the barely-visible claret that was his own. He slammed against the moist walls of the gully, rolling, trying to crush them as they continued to zap and bite away. Tatara tested the limits of those in her grasp, SPARTANS such as Jun included. He could barely think with how much blood was pouring out of him, great gashes torn into important veins by the monsters. Yet, one by one, they dropped, fell, twisted and mangled bits of river-dweller.

_He could hear them crying._

_Grown men and women screamed like babies as they were shot, incinerated, crushed. The cacophony that was Reach's surface made his gut twist uncomfortably. He would hear it dozens of times more in the war, and he would distance himself, telling himself that they had died bravely. Then, it was just a matter of point, click, aim; one shot, and the Brute who had just ripped out someone's spine would be spitting pink mist.  
_

When all was said and done, the shaking Jun collapsed against one of the gully walls, clutching at his face as his eyes burned and squinted. He panted harshly, clutching at the numerous, torn patches of skin. His clothes stuck to him, the forest cackled and chattered around him, something foreign and avian-sounding crying out before launching out of a tree. Jun struggled to catch his breath, coughing, his rifle sunken into the mud and covered with pieces of gulper.


	3. The Wayfarer: Prologue III

_(Halo & ILoveBees (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators. Text (c) L.Q. Coverdale. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate, uncensored language. This fic is on the harder end of the PG-13 scale; viewer discretion is advised._

_Note: Text surrounded by squared brackets ([ and ]) is to be assumed that of a non-English language.)_**  
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**- _The Wayfarer_: Prologue III -**

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_**Sára**__**: **Hungarian version of the name "Sarah", Hebrew for "princess".  
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_~ Translations from Hungarian and Hebrew  
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_Breathe, breathe, stop and look. Nothing left, nothing right. Don't think about the monsters, just stay calm. Another breath, keep grounded. Her nightly ritual, the rope that tied sanity and mind together, the Reach Hungarian rubbed at her steely eyes. They were still growling, bellowing, in her sleep, even though it had been a few years now. Then again, the doctors had said the visions might plague her for the rest of her life; she could not help but feel bitter. It had been hard enough, seeing her struggling, desperate father try and hide the chip, only to be impaled and left on the floor with his blood splatter.

Sorvad Sára had experienced many sleepless nights since the fall of Reach.

Medication made everything worse. Sure, she took it, but the village's doctor lived down river, and he only managed to find his way back once a week. He cared for an entire riverbank's worth of people; only the most desperate to live planet-side could be found on Tatara. Doctors, who usually were paid well for such a time-consuming, life-saving service, were as foreign an idea to the rainforest-dwellers as the concept of a drought. Thus, relapses were common, and so was Sára's nightmare and insomnia spells. She would have rejected the idea of pills entirely had it not been for several intense, scream-inducing flashes.

Sára rubbed tiredly at her temples. Every time she had to wake up and centre herself, it came with the most awful headache. Sure, it waned after about ten or twelve minutes, but it only made her more irritable towards anyone who might have poked her head in. The dangerous surroundings meant the village structures were cramped tightly together, lest something hidden in the dark drag away an easy meal. She _would_ be heard -

"Sára?"

- Right on time.

[„Sára, are you all right?"]

A torch's flight brightened the entire of the makeshift hut. The Hungarian had to shield her eyes, lancing pains shooting through the pupils as the beams cut through the dark. Standing in the doorway was a slightly-older Hungarian woman, Szendrey Isabella, her ash-blonde hair glowing in the light of the moon. Sára, too sore in the mind to be polite, gave Izabella an angry look.

[„I'm quite fine, Mrs. Szendrey. Could you please turn the damn thing off?"]

There was a click, and save for the moonlight, pitch darkness. [„I'm sorry, Sára,"] said Izabella, frowning even if her countryman couldn't see it. [„I thought you were having a good week."]

[„I never have a good week, Mrs. Szendrey,"] growled Sára. Why was she so damn overprotective? Izabella wasn't her mother, and she was only worth her money in the end. A fountain of gossip and the local floozy, she probably wanted to ask Sára again when the doctor said he would be back. She didn't _need_ the kind of pills she was always begging Doctor Araya for ... [„You can get out of my house now."]

Izabella huffed. [„Well excuse me for being concerned, princess! Next time I hear you sounding like your arm's being sawed off, I'll let whatever's in your house get you good!"]

[„Nobody_ asked_ for your help,"] said Sára, her Hungarian half-muffled as she rubbed at her face. Spots were beginning to form in front of her eyes because of the floozy's damned light. [„Go back to bed. Doctor Araya said he'd be back Wednesday. You happy?"]

Izabella growled something profane in Hungarian, then quickly returned to her own dwelling. Not before, however, giving the area nearby a good sweep of her flashlight. When was the paranoid "watch dog" going to quit? It had been several months since she had lost her husband of two years to a cockatrice in the dark. It was his fault for trying to relieve himself out in the bush; there were portable toilets attached to each hut for a reason. The entire village had pooled their money into buying those small but significant creature comforts.

Her hands reached for the small, solar-powered icebox, a crude cord attached to a panel and a cylinder on the roof. Opening it up, Sára growled quietly another few curses. The ice had half-melted, and there were only a couple of purified water bottles left from the last supply run. Sára _was not_ looking forward to the fact she might have to make a trip to the river in the morning. For God's sake, there had been _another _gunfight at the river earlier that day, and the gulpers were going crazy!

As soon as she could find a way to save enough money, she was heading for the Quetzalcoatl Space Elevator and leaving. For two years, she had lived in that simple shanty, relying on spotty supply runs and fighting off hellish creatures that constantly crawled out from the undergrowth. Reach had not killed her, but the rainforest surely would, and Sára wasn't about to stick around any longer if she could.

After taking a long, much-needed gulp of water, Sára held the bottle to one temple. Despite the warmth of the water from the surrounding temperatures, it still served well as a makeshift ice pack. Her headache began to wane, the spots disappeared, and she took a deep, relaxing breath. "Remember to breathe," Doctor Araya had said, "and focus on something else but the pain." When the hurt finally ceased, Sára laid back down and closed her eyes. Soon enough, she fell back asleep.

* * *

The Tataran dawn rose with a flurry of microraptors leaping from tree to tree. Named after the gliding, feathery ancient that had resembled a small lizard with four wings, they chattered loudly as they went. In the morning, they would drink condensation and slurp up scum, gathering bits of moss and chewing tree bark for their nests. They sounded much like a flock of canaries, only they had a wavering, whistling note that was quite shrill, yet cheery.

A well-aimed rock promptly squished a microraptor that had perched on Sára's hut. It fell to the ground, writhing in pain from crushed ribs and broken legs, before a stomp to the head silenced it. One of the younger boys in the village smiled victoriously, scurrying over to his house with what would be part of breakfast.

Sára glared, disgusted, and in a foul mood yet again from lack of a decent sleep. Grabbing a worn bucket from the corner of her shanty, she slipped into a pair of equally worn boots, the steel toes dented and scratched. From there, she proceeded out and towards a line of men and women, headed towards the river for washing and drinking water.

* * *

Despite its dangers, the Leticia River was as vital, almost sacred, to the village as the oxygen-rich atmosphere. A highway and a grocery store all in one, boats could be see putting up and down its swiftly-churning waters every hour of the day. Traders were headed down the river now, cruising away at moderate speeds with crates of need-servicing goods. They passed by the village's washing line with barely a glance; they were not of the men who dealt with Sára's settlement. Sára recognized them as belonging to a village downstream.

Furthest upstream, people seeking water to purify scooped as much as they could carry. Washing was done further downstream as to prevent pollution of the water taken by water-carriers. (Not that it helped much anyway, as the Leticia was sand-brown and filled with God knew what.) Even further downstream, people tossed liquid waste into the river - vomit, urine, bathwater, and whatever else could become one with the water. It was a disgusting practice, yes, but done under the assumption that the water-purifying station at the river's end would clean it up.

("Why not go to the purifying station and buy clean water there?" one might ask. In reality, said station was guarded by a highly select group of men, working for a highly select group of customers, who in turn had a highly select group of customers of their own. The rainforests had no unified government to stop them, and nobody wanted to get on the nerves of someone surrounded by six machine gun nests.)

"I heard that Roald's mercs are acting up again," piped up an Earth-born British woman to Izabella, scrubbing away at a skirt as she did. "Created a right mess of this place, they did. I heard they stole something from Hawk's groups that they were carrying to the elevator."

"Aye, me heard that to," said Izabella in typical, forced English. For someone from a mostly-bilingual planet, she'd never had fully grasped the idea, it seemed. "Much blood. Gulpers getting fat. Small Anezka nearly lost a foot yesterday, try get sweetvine she did."

"It's such a shame Doctor Araya is the only practitioner for miles," said Yvonette, an American despite what her name might else say. "Lucy's in a damn tizzy over that. Anezka keeps complaining the bite's getting more and more sore, and it's sprung a leak. The thing might well abscess if we don't get more peroxide in soon."

"We could always go to Roald," said the British woman, "but I hear he's got some major competition in the area. They're targeting the bloody women and children and making an _example_, I hear. A lot of the villages have jumped ship and found other people to deal with."

"No one liking Roald," said Izabella. "He has ... methods. Methods make much question. We stay away, we fine here. Anezka just a bad small one, never listening good. She gulper food already."

Sára said nothing to the women beside her. Gossips, the lot of them; the only reason six-year old Anezka had been attacked was because her mother wasn't paying attention. Whenever Penelope Swann brought her brood of six with her to the river, she paid more attention to being paranoid of the water than to where her children were. It was by sheer force of motherly instinct, fuelling the adrenaline of an already-brawny woman's body, that had pulled Anezka from the jaws of the gulper. Otherwise, she would have been fish food - or food for whatever kind of biological class those monsters belonged to.

From somewhere in the distance, a bell suddenly clanged three times, the ladies stiffening and immediately standing up. The hum of a boat's motor could be heard, and pealing as fast towards the group as it could was Doctor Araya's party. The women immediately waved him over, greeting him with cheery hellos and questioning his early arrival. The dark-skinned, Coral-born physician waved back, although his expression was less than pleasant.

"Doctor!" said Izabella cheerily. "To what we owe, what pleasure?"

"I'm afraid it's business this time, sweetheart," said Araya. "Do you still have room in your shanty, _Asszony _Szendrey?"

"Always for good Doctor," said Izabella with a sweet smile. Sára could already figure out why, and she smiled ever-so-slightly at the uncouth thought that came up. "Why?"

* * *

He looked like a piece of bait.

He was wrapped in bandages, smelling strongly of medicines and sedatives. His breathing was quiet, though laboured, and a tattoo of a spear-holding hand was mauled by a bite mark to his head. Doctor Araya moved the stethoscope away from his patient's heart, pulling down around his neck and turning to Izabella.

[„How long does he need to stay here?"]

[„Just until I can call for help from Little Connecticut,"] said Araya, speaking the Hungarian tongue flawlessly and with only a hint of an Arabic accent. [„He has blood poisoning from the gulper bites. It doesn't help that there was scum festering in his injuries like nobody's business. I'm surprised he hasn't gone into full septic shock from that attack."]

[„And little Anezka?"]

[„She'll be fine, Izzy dear. I've already administered antibiotics and cleaned the wound properly. I've also left two bottles of your medication, as I won't be around for a while after I leave. I have a huge enough backlog as it is from the other villages, and this side-trip will only make it worse."]

[„You should go,"] said Izabella, looking concerned. [„He will be fine here. We have good food, a good water purification system, and we keep lights on at night to keep the predators away. He'll be safe here."] Araya, however, shook his head.

[„I only wish it were that easy, Izabella,"] said Araya. [„He needs a hospital, and until then, 24-hour medical care as best as possible. He's having trouble with his fever and there's been too much mercenary activity. You heard the massacre at Bridge Nine?"]

[„For hours,"] said Izabella. [„We couldn't get enough for supper last night because there were too many armed men running around. They didn't come close, though."]

[„Exactly,"] said Araya. [„All of the other villages on this stretch are too close to the river for me to feel comfortable. As sick as this gentleman is, I wouldn't put it past Hawk or Roald or someone else to snatch him for the organ market. I don't get a chance often to help the lost ones, so I want to make it count."]

[„Understandable, Doctor,"] said Izabella. [„Before you leave, however, could you take a look at Sára? She had a horrible night last night. She was screaming the most ungodly things in her sleep, and she was as white as a sheet when I saw her. I think you may need to alter her dosages again."]

[„I'll certainly look into that,"] said the good Doctor before turning to leave the hut. [„Thank you again, Izabella. I'll make sure to compensate for your time when I can get to a trading post and back."]

[„Think nothing of it, Doctor."]

* * *

She didn't need more of the damned medication. Szendrey Izabella, man-hunter and rumour-monger, and now apparently an expert on medicine as well! As Doctor Araya went about his rounds, Sára fumed. If she had to keep relying on that stupid pill bottle ...

Getting angrier wasn't going to help things. At worse, it would make Araya start thinking Sára needed anger pills. Walking over to the purification and ice machine, grateful for the lack of a lineup, Sára knelt down and opened her icebox. Turning a few switches, she held it up to the gaping flap-door that the ice came from. The shredded near-powder came down in an icy torrent, and as it did, Sára's thoughts spun.

The man Araya had carried in on a stretcher looked familiar. Somewhere, some time ago, Sára had seen him. But, she had also heard the Doctor say the stranger had had a half-buried rifle near his body. To the young woman, it sounded as if he was another mercenary, another casualty of an already-ugly turf war and the recipient of a lucky streak this time. Though Doctor Araya was correct in that the village was safely isolated, his presence made Sára nervous. What if someone was out for his blood, and learned that he was there? Doctor Araya might have been praised as a miracle-worker, but Sára highly doubted he could pull out another "miracle" if he was standing at the end of a machine gun's barrel. The mercenaries had their own contacts Araya could be replaced with.

Pulling away from the ice machine, Sára set to the task of filling up the seven water bottles, sized extra large, that Araya had given her. He had been kind enough to share some of his weekly supplies with the village, and it was one of the few things Sára was thankful for. For all the loathing she had for him, she respected his philanthropic views. She only wished he had more people sense, seeing past Izabella's sugar-coated attempts at flirting with him. Her husband gets dragged away in the night, conveniently after her being found to have an affair, and then she goes back to flirting after a few weeks of mourning? Not to mention, of course, her newest squeeze running off without a single word or goodbye?

It seemed too coincidental to Sára, and as Reach had taught her, there were no such things as coincidences. Why else would the Covenant suddenly appear when her father was so excited about some sort of discovery?


	4. Chapter I

_(Halo & ILoveBees (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate, uncensored language. Certain substances mentioned in this chapter. This fic is on the harder end of the PG-13 scale; viewer discretion is advised.)_**  
**

* * *

**- _Chapter I_**_** -**_

* * *

The package was strapped to her belt, resembling a thermos and wrapped in coarse, water-proofed material. It clanged and bumped against her side, barely noticed as she went along. Her torch's light washed over the trees, sending the smallest of critters squirming into the darkness. Though there was still daylight, the sheer thickness of the upper canopy blacked out the sky like ink. The light that did manage to strain through from above was weak, fading down into nothingness the farther it went. From the gaps in the trees that the sun tried to pierce through, Janissary could tell it was late in the afternoon. She had been travelling for God knows how long, and she still hadn't seen a single landmark.

The trail was still used - Jan had noticed footprints on several occasions - but just barely. Any marks she found were old, and the deeper parts of the jungle where were man was not to tread. The chattering of beasts and other, alien things was thick, almost headache-inducing. Unlike what some might have thought, the rainforest was never silent - it was a cacophony of life and movement, barely visible but always heard beyond the trees. When that cacophony was silenced, the best thing to do was run, as a predator was probably somewhere nearby. Lord only knew the number of nights she had broken out of a half-sleep, the air deathly quiet, as something slithered through the bushes near camp.

A silvery glimmer caught Jan's eye, her sharper-than-normal eyes picking it up in a nearby patch of shadow. The torch was shone in the shine's direction, and lo and behold, there was a metal structure of some kind choked by flora. Jan carefully, slowly walked over, squinting her eyes as she tried to make out the details of the structure. It seemed to be some sort of ... building? _No, too small. It's more ... shaped. _Had she been able to recognize what kind of vine was curled around the metal, she would have moved it; there were as many dangerous plants in Tatara as there were stones on the ground. Even touching one could prove deadly, and Jan could remember an incident where a parasitic vine had invaded a man's dominant hand. Flowers had been popping through his skin like tiny, bloody decorations, and he slowly lost the circulation in his hand as it wrapped around his veins and muscles.

_Covenant vehicle, _Jan deduced after some more poking around. In some battle, carrying some sort of alien creature, it had probably been a Banshee. Now, however, it only served as a perch for the ever-ensnaring plant life of Tatara, just another den for some creature or a place for it to hide. Time, when working in hand with nature, could suppress the works of more intelligent races like a dictator's oppressive policies. Jan smiled slightly; if there were Covenant crafts nearby, she must be getting close.

From somewhere above her, there was a small, low hiss, and Jan flinched. Her torchlight immediately shone up into the canopy, her free hand on a Magnum's holster. The hiss held steady, but then waned, moving away from Jan's position. Her heart still beating a little fast, she remained steadfast, then breathed out and calmed herself afterwards. She moved forward, a little hurry to her step, as the forest kept singing on around her.

* * *

The ground became more and more descending. Little cliffs began to appear, jagged tears in the earth that roots fell over like curtains. The path remained on a mostly even course, the elevation changes farther out, but was still a chore in some spots. As Jan move, she was constantly shining her flashlight to and fro, the tangled plant life covering the path more and more. Whoever had come through before didn't seem to have gone any farther; Jan chalked it up to a lack of sure-footedness. The fact it could have also been some sort of predator was also considered, but promptly shoved to the back of her mind. She had to focus, and being paranoid would make her more susceptible to missing something important.

As she had walked, the Covenant remnants had become more numerous, albeit hard to see. What looked to be more vehicles and several old buildings were lost to the rainforest, piggapines - pig-like creatures that looked crossed with porcupines, almost like giant Earth's echidnas - rooting around them. Several of the spiny creatures grunted and ran along the path, nervous of Jan's presence. Though painful if one was tackled by them, they were mostly timid insectivores, hunted for meat and their spiny hide. When dried and tanned, the spines became incredibly stiff, and could be sharpened like a knife. Covering a piece of scrap metal or a filched riot shield, the result could be like a Scottish spiked targe, only with more points.

Trying to manoeuvre around a rather messy curve in the path, Jan nearly yelped, taking in a quick intake of breath. Scurrying across the path was a _giant _millipede, slinky and dark and moving on a multitude of legs. Thanks to the oxygen-rich atmosphere of Tatara, insects could grow to sizes not seen since the time of the dinosaurs; dragonflies the size of one's hand were not uncommon. Their presence was introduced - a result of the more wealthy Tataran citizens importing insects from Earth to keep in bug collections. All was fine and well so long as the insects remained inside, but the smallest crack in the glass could allow hundreds to scurry out. Then there was the issue of the more poisonous and notorious insects being imported for bio-weaponry projects ...

A piggapine quickly scurried along the path, snatching at the millipede with its porky little nose. The insect crunched in its jaws, falling to pieces from its mouth, a smaller piggapine quickly coming up to nibble at the remains. Jan watched for a moment, then turned and made her way down the curve -

"AH!"

- Only to fall and slide down through a patch of foliage taller than it appeared. She landed on her feet, thankfully, something crunching beneath one foot. Her heart beating loudly from the sudden surprise, she looked around, piggapines grunting in surprise above her. Other than them, nothing seemed to have been disturbed by her yell.

A yell which, to her annoyance, nearly repeated itself as Jan looked down. Her foot had gone through the ribcage of something, and she pulled it back like her bare foot had touched hot iron. She nearly scrambled, eyes wide, but came back to her senses when she saw it wasn't human. Rather, it was the weak, crumbling skeleton of a Jackal - the elongated, bird-like face was a dead giveaway (pun not intended) - that had been there for a long, long time. From the round hole above one eye, it looked like a gunshot victim. Jan quickly moved on, seeing several more structures peeking out of the undergrowth.

_Why would the Covenant want to stay **here**? _Jan thought as she walked. From what she had been told, even though there hadn't been many, a camp of Covenant fighters once thrived on Tatara. They didn't see much combat, mostly fighting with natives, Insurrectionists and the odd UNSC patrol. Yet, even they couldn't escape the beasts of Tatara; cockatrice attacks and their clashes with nesting mothers were the stuff of campfire stories around there. Eventually the camp ran out of supplies, manpower and food, and the animals became more aggressive and bold. The few survivors took what they had and left, and Tatara devoured what was left behind. _You'd think they'd learn the first time after running into a cockatrice.  
_

**_"Rrrrrrrrrrr."_**

Jan stiffened, looking up above. Her torch's light lit up the leaves above, but a second too late. From the branches above, a great, feather-maned head dropped down with a rolling hiss. Serpent's eyes locked with her own, and she barely had enough time to pull out a gun. It lunged, maw wide with hunger, and the oncoming mix of scales and teeth was narrowly dodged. The snap afterwards was as loud as an oar smacking water on a quiet morning.

_**"RAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRR!"**_

* * *

He was dressed as a Victorian hunter might be, and in another time, he might have been some sort of explorer of that kind of wilderness. The man chewed thoughtfully on his pipe, standing on the porch of his simple wooden house. The clearing shone brightly, sharply contrasting the darkness of the rainforest around him. A lone soul amongst the relic that was a Covenant base, he listened, relaxed, to the sounds of life around him. The afternoon was warm, the skies clear (for once), and zotzes - bat-like creatures that had shrew-like features - flew in the waning sun. He enjoyed their chirping, finding it endearing, and had kept one as a pet once. Sadly, the poor thing had got a bit vicious during the breeding season, and had been forced to shoot it.

_**"RAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRR ... !"**_

Well that was odd. His head perked up like a dog's, attentive to the loud roar. Shrieking could be heard in the forest as terrified fauna fled, branches cracking with serpentine movement. An eyebrow rose; Gary never made that kind of noise unless there was an intruder._**  
**_

"_SHIIIIIIIIIT ... !"_

_... And so there is,_ thought Reggie_. _He wondered who on Earth would be venturing so far in to visit him - _Ah, yes. Roald's girl, if I'm not mistaken._ He leaned back, taking a deep, tobacco-filled breath. Gary probably thought she was someone else coming to trespass. If she was smart, Gary wouldn't be much of a problem for her. _Although, all that noise might stir a cockatrice or two ..._

_

* * *

_

"Shit, shit, _shit_!"

The _biggest_ feathered serpent Jan had ever seen charged after her like an attack dog. Stick and stone broke and fell aside, his massive bulk cutting through the jungle with ease. Jan threw herself behind every piece of cover she could find, ducking under and behind rock, tree and formation with near-reckless reflexes. Yet, Gary only seemed to be annoyed, becoming more and more determined to have her as his next meal. When she could, she turned and fired, both Magnums wielded and full to bursting with ammunition. Yet, whenever she scored a hit, it only seemed to be a bee's sting to the monster.

Jan charged through the split trunk of a tree, forcing herself through a series of tangled vines. Turn, shoot, run, repeat - it was crazed dance of survivalist's choreography, so instinctive and trained into her that it moved as fluidly as a breath. Yet, she stumbled and smacked herself around repeatedly, adrenaline pumping, blood thundering in her ears. She couldn't focus, nothing was slowing the thing down. A warm rush of breath caused her to nearly scream, the feathered serpent opening its mouth wide to swallow. Jan leaped out of the way, bruising herself thoroughly as she slammed into a rocky jutting. She rolled down, Gary right behind her.

"BEAT IT!" yelled Jan as she recovered, coming to rest in a crouch. Two of her bullets were lucky, whizzing by one of Gary's exposed upper fangs. They skimmed across his tooth, surprising him, and giving her enough time to squeeze through a tight gap between trees. Jan nearly stumbled again, running into a thorny bush, but pulled herself free in an instant. Gary slithered around the trees, gaining speed as the two moved downhill. Jan's mind whirled as she looked frantically left and right.

_There!_

Leaping over a large, jagged rock, Jan charged into some sort of pass, narrowed and with sides like a carnivore's jaw. Gary quickly slithered up and around, snaking along to meet her at a natural near-overpass. He curled up, mouth opening, Jan spotting him out of the corner of her eye. Her Magnum clicked on empty as she tried to fire, leading to Jan cursing loudly. Her fingers desperately tried to shove a new round into the open gun, Gary taking the chance to lunge forward.

What happened next seemed to be in near slow-motion. In the middle of his strike, jaws as thick as his head lunged forward, long and beak-like and lined with sharp teeth. The serpent made a guttural sound as he was caught by the neck, the attack made with suffocating force. Purple blood ran down in curving streams, the flesh blackening as if rotting. A loud, crackling growl-hiss sounded; Gary squirmed, twitching, choking out hisses and snarls as he was pulled across the near-overpass. His body thumped and thwacked, eventually wrapping around something. A screechy squawk sounded, and then, the squelch of a bite; like a banshee announcing death, a blood-curdling scream came from Gary's attacker.

Jan didn't stick around to see what happened next. As the two monsters rolled around, screeching and bellowing bloody murder, all she could see was the light at the end of the small pass. The sounds above her rivalled the cry of Earth-monsters long past, more like something straight out of _The Lost World_ given some terrifying new steroid. The sounds of battle rang long and hard, fading yet still ever-present as she ran. When she finally reached the clearing, there was too much flight in Jan to notice a small piece of debris, and she flew forward like someone out of a comedy piece. Flesh was scraped, dirt was shoved into her face, and she dug into the ground for a few inches before stopping.

"Hello there, my dear!"

Her head snapped up, the girl panting frantically. Standing directly opposite of her, on a far-off porch and waving cheerily, was her client. Despite the ungodly noise from the two beasts, he looked as if he were enjoying just another day in the park.

"Bit of mess there, eh? Don't mind Gary now, he's just a bit territorial!"

"YOU COULD HAVE HELPED ME BACK THERE, YOU STUPID BASTARD!" Jan bellowed back, quickly getting to her feet. Reggie only laughed.

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, dear! Please, come in; I've been expecting you!"

* * *

Jan sat at a table in the corner, her glance shifting nervously between Reggie and the outside world. The fight was still ongoing, shrieking cries and loud, hissing roars echoing throughout the rainforest. In the corner, Reggie carefully examined the canister, which showed not even a dent from travel. He ran his finger over some sort of serial number or code, tutting in thought.

"You have a very valuable item here, my dear."

"What?" said Jan, turning her head to face Reggie. The man shook his head, smiling knowingly.

"Ah, you shouldn't be worried about Gary, Miss ... Janissary, was it?"

"Janissary James, yes sir." _Gary? **Gary? **He has a goddamn pet serpent and its name is **Gary**__? What the **hell**!_

"Janissary, yes. I hand-picked Gary myself, Miss James, and I have raised him since he was but an egg. If I say he won't find his current prey a problem, I speak the truth. Now, about your AI ... "

He walked over to another nearby table, sifting through papers with one hand, the thermos-like contraption in the other. Once he found what he was searching for, he held it up, turning and approaching like Jan like he was about to lecture her. "Your AI appears to be a base program, if my code guides are up-to-date," said Reggie, not taking his eyes off the paper. "Nothing special, no original programming, just a complex encryption on it to keep out prying eyes. Most of them are templates for further programs, and are fresh off the factory line, so to speak. They're usually kept in storage or in laboratories by the UNSC; it's very hard to get one. How did you come across it."

"I'm just the messenger, sir," said Jan. "I do what Roald tells me to do."

Reggie chuckled fondly. "As all good girls should do," he said, patting Jan on the head. She frowned in annoyance, but held her tongue. "And he expects payment, I presume?"

"He said he did," said Jan, not sure why Roald had. _What kind of sense does it make to ask for payment for something you're paying for?_

"Then I shall give it to him," said Reggie. "The decryption process will take a while to sort out, so I will contact you once my employer has it done. In the meantime, let me take you a little something to take back. Wait here."

As Reggie excused himself to the back room, Jan took a moment to look around. Glancing outside again as a loud snarl sounded, she got up, walking over to the table Reggie had covered with papers. Most of them were standard guides to UNSC codes - nothing Jan hadn't seen before. Her eyes flickered over to them, and then to a radio set in the corner. Though the equipment looked a little antiquated - the model was a civilian design, probably about fifty or sixty years old - it looked well-kept and well-set up. The odd blip of static came through, and Jan thought she could make out a word or two.

_"Ah! Here we are!"_

Jan was back in her seat by the time Reggie returned. In one hand, he held the hide of a large piggapine, unaltered save for that fact it didn't cover something anymore. In the other, there was a tobacco-like substance, held in a little package that could fit in Jan's palm. It could have been something other than tobacco - but Jan knew better than to question. She took both, stuffing the substance into one pocket, holding the piggapine hide in one hand. Janissary turned to leave.

"Wait a minute, dear," said Reggie. "Please, allow me to call for Gary and let him escort you home."

Jan could only turn and stare incredulously. "You want _him _to go with me?"

"Only out of courtesy," Reggie replied cheerily. "Besides, by the sounds of it, he should finish taking care of business any time now."

"What do you mean - "

Jan's question was answered in the form of a grunt, a loud hiss, and then, a loud, wet _crunch_. Then came the most ear-piercing, horrible shriek she had ever heard; she flinched back, eyes wide. There was much smashing and crashing, and then the unmistakable snap of bone. Everything went dead quiet, save for a loud, drawn-out hiss and the sounds of something slithering. A few minutes later, Gary came slithering out, a black wound on his neck and several bruises and slashes. One eye was completely gone, a violet-flowing hole and torn flesh where it was supposed to be, and the black around his neck wound was growing. Jan stared, looking like she had seen Lucifer himself marching out of Hell.

"Gary!" Reggie called, whistling. The snake paused, turning, holding its battered head up. "Gary, please be a dear and escort Miss James back home, would you?"

The snake gave a low, waning hiss, then slithered until it was a few feet from the house. Jan continued to stare, one hand twitching reflexively for her gun. Reggie clapped her on the shoulder with yet another chuckle, breaking her out of her nerved staring. "You're too twitchy, Miss James! You should relax more!"

"Y-yeah ... " said Jan. _Bastard. What's he so sure about? The damn thing could turn around and eat him one day, for God's sake!_

_

* * *

_

With Gary undulating along beside her, Jan ventured through the small, low pass, her companion crawling up onto the rocks. Reggie waved a goodbye, Jan not turning around to return it, before venturing back in to his cabin. He immediately made a beeline for the radio, switching it on and fiddling with the knobs until he found a signal.

"Camp Talon, Camp Talon, this is Wyoming," he said. "Come in Camp Talon, do you copy?"

Static fizzled about for several moments. Then, after a particularly choppy moment, a man's voice said, _"We're here, Wyoming. What is it?"_

"Found your lost toy," said Wyoming with a grin. "Roald had it, like you suspected. The messenger girl's name is Janissary James, and she's headed down the old Covvie trails ... "_  
_

* * *

_Author's Note: This is a rewrite of the original Chapter I, which was lost, accidentally replaced by another chapter I was editing, and had to be completely rewritten. I apologize if it deviates too much from the original reading; I'm doing this from memory and plot charts. To keep up with new word counts, expect some more to be added to other chapters.  
_


	5. Chapter II

_(Halo & ILoveBees (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate, uncensored language. This fic is on the harder end of the PG-13 scale; viewer discretion is advised._

_Note: Text surrounded by squared brackets ([ and ]) is to be assumed that of a non-English language.)_**  
**

* * *

**- _Chapter II_**_** -**_

* * *

Death was the inevitable end of all ends. With it, existence winked out of reality, and the blissful black was numbed - or so people had said. There was a lift to his body, a sort of separation, as if two halves were parting and one was rising up. Shock from blood loss, coolness in the humidity; nothing made sense to a brain starved of oxygen. He was lifted, he opened and closed his eyes several times ... and then, in the haze of greens, he let go. From there, everything was a blank.

But there was the unsettling feeling of being pulled back down. Something was dragging him back out of the abyss, gentle words and swabbing, stinging ... some sort of procedure and the smell of rubbing alcohol. Despite the fact that his mind was foggy, and every part of him was trying to escape, there was a mortal tie that blocked his way. The end would not comfort him as the pain went away, and he kept drifting in and out. In the part of his mind still coherent, he begged for them to release him, as he had already let go of everything. There was light and shadow, playing with and disorienting him, and he could hear their voices. See their faces. Memory put name to vision: Kat was telling him to keep still, Emile wanted him to stop being a baby, Carter was joking about something, Six seemed distant (as always) ...

Why did Jorge sound like a woman? And he was speaking Hungarian, too. Didn't he remember he was the only one on the team fluent in another language? _Come on Jorge, I can't understand you. Stop teasing the girls ..._

_Jorge? Not Jorge. Is ..._

_Okay, speak some proper English, for God's sake. You don't hear me going around speaking the Great Three Tongues of Tyumen._

_Tyu ... men?_

_Chinese-Japanese-Spanish amalgamation of a city. You know, the one on Harmony? The one you said you wanted to visit with all its tea houses?_

_Tea? Tea drink, T-shape houses?_

_No Jorge, tea as in the drink. What's wrong with you?_

Was everyone high on something? Where had the others gone? _Great. Leave me hanging with the joke. Just because I can be serious doesn't mean I have a sense of humour._ He gave a snort, colours swirling around him. Having Jorge try to screw with him always gave him a headache; the one man you didn't want to bet on cards with could play the most convincing "dumb face" ever. What an idiot.

Jun couldn't help but want to shut his eyes ...

* * *

_I didn't know you spoke Hungarian, Six._

Six seemed confused. _What? You mean me?_

_Yes, you, _he thought with a silly smile, rolling his eyes. So it appeared that Six _did _have a sense of humour - or at least, Carter or Jorge had tried to instill one in her. What kind of answer was that, coming from her? _Mind telling me what the joke is about, Six?_

_My name isn't Six,_ she snapped back. _You're high on painkillers; stop talking and go back to sleep._

Painkillers? What painkillers? _Six!_

But she just left, unusually flippant, looking like someone had just insulted her. Oh, so was Kat's temper rubbing off on Six, too? Jun had always liked the spicy Latinas. The thought of Six being such suddenly made her very attractive. Kat would be pretty hot too, if she didn't know a million different ways to broadcast any pickup lines and make them sound ... _accusing_. Emile was right: Kat was scary. If she wasn't careful, curiosity would kill the -

_Kat._

A spike round. A burning city. The sudden stop as it plunged into the back of her helmet. Radiation from plasma, shields down, completely helpless. Emile had held her in his arms.

_NO!_

The flames. The rubble. Halsey. Castle Base. He shouldn't have gone, he should have disobeyed orders, it was an absolute bloodbath _and Command knew it -_

Darkness. No more flames. No more Kat.

* * *

_Stop sounding like a woman, Jorge._

_My name not Jorge. Is -_

Again with Jorge's banter. When was the SPARTAN-II going to realize the joke was getting old? And why couldn't Jun focus on anything?

_Sleep. I must be lacking sleep. Command's been a **grind**, I swear. You know how hard it is to work scout?_

_Eh ... no. You sleep. You sleep ... good?_

_HA! Now you sound like you're backwater, Jorge. What am I going to learn next, you're inbred?_

_Inbred? What did you just call me?_

Another spout of Hungarian, furious and feminine. Jun couldn't help but laugh; where was Jorge's poker face? Then again, the big guy had always had a soft spot for things. Maybe he had struck a nerve? Well good! Jorge was being confusing. Hell, they were _all _being confusing. What kind of "Noble Team" were they, treating Jun like an illiterate from a planet in the middle of nowhere? And what was Emile doing with his kukri now -

_OW!_

His hand connected with Emile's face._ What the hell, Emile!_

_Sir, please calm down. _Emile was holding his face like a pansy, Jorge fussing over him like some sort of wife. What, they were dating now? _Close your eyes and try to centre yourself. You have a fever and you're on powerful medications. What are you seeing?_

_Come on, Emile ... _thought Jun. _Quit screwing around. I thought I told you I'm done with this already! And what the hell are you poking me with your knife for? I'm your teammate, not a piece of food!_

_Sir ..._

Oh look, it was getting dark out again. Time for a nap.

* * *

Loops of feedback, chatter over the radio. _Be quiet, Jun! _they had said. Loop after loop, the infiniteness of noise, station after station giving their prospective conditions. _All clear. Enemy fire. Seraphs inbound. Medic! _The sounds of war, the belching guns, the smell of plasma and blood in the morning. Jun took a breath, just as he would before firing that one lone bullet.

Carter had rammed into the side of a Scarab. Splattered like a bug against a bigger bug, like a bag of red water and organs dropped from the top of a building. Of course, the explosion would have burned away all that; what a mess. Steadfast resolution, the noble commander of an equally noble squad. Their name had been meaningful, simple as could be.

_And you, rationalist? _someone had once said to him - or had he said it to himself? _You were his vigilant eye. You abandoned your emotions in the face of cool logic. You should forget that this place is his tomb._

He deserved better. A proper funeral, a hero's welcome, with flags and mourners and recognition outside of blacked-out files and military bureaucracy. _But you wouldn't have liked that, would you Carter? You were no SPARTAN-117. You were the cousin he overshadowed, mentioned in passing but never part of the family. None of us were. Halsey made it clear._

The bitch deserved to burn. Burn like Carter, like New Alexandria, with her own precious ship smashed into a thousand pieces. What latchkey discovery? What was more important than making sure time wouldn't be wasted playing escort to another civvie bench-warmer?_ I might sound like Emile, but he was right. Go to hell, the lot of you. _A growl rose in his throat.

_... Sir?_

_Enough with the jokes, Jorge! _Jun snapped. _Start talking normally again! ALL OF YOU! Can't you see I'm pissed off and want a **little** bit of sense in this mess!_

Jorge only recoiled. Oh, so now he was going weak on Jun? Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. Emile had a point - Jorge let his emotions take charge too much. Jun had distanced himself - he had to - and as a result, he had lived. No suicidal lost cause for the good of Reach. If Jorge had been smart, he would have let one of the cannon-fodder marines that had trapped him inside that ship do it for him. There was no reason for them to damage the ship so badly Jorge had to throw Six back into orbit! If her re-entry pack had malfunctioned, it would've been a death sentence!

_You think you're so hilarious, trying to do this to my head. You think it was funny that I had to watch Six come back alone, with your tags, and start wondering about the properties of slipspace._

_... Sir?_

_You're probably still out there, floating around somewhere else, and you'll pop out of nowhere and everything will be **just fine** when you come back, right? Teleported into oblivion you wouldn't have been. You're probably on some remote colony, wondering what the hell is going on, and you're not even trying to get home. You don't care. You were a weakling, and Reach was your heel; slash it, and you're nothing more than a bleeding heart._

_... Reach? What of Reach? Who is Jorge?_

_Slipspace is a funny thing. You can't really say if anything that doesn't appear at the other end is gone. It could have been yanked aside into another realm, another time, and you're there. You're there, watching from your glass pool, your mirror on the wall, if the physics of that place allow it. And now, you've got no reason to come home, because you couldn't give a damn about the people that tried to save her. You had Reach, and now, you've got nothing, and you're going to make **damn** sure we have nothing as well._

He laughed, hard and bitter, weak and tired.

_Why? Why send me away? I could have done something, Jorge. I could have taken all of those Mike-Foxtrots out, one pretty little headshot at a time. Pink mist in the air, red painting the walls. I was the vigilant eye of Noble, do you understand that?_

_Vigi...vigla...vigilan -_

_Don't try me, _snapped Jun. _You can speak English fine, and you're most certainly not a woman. Jorge, stop doing this to me. Let me go, Jorge -_

He began to writhe, to wriggle back into himself. A hand reached out, grabbing for something, as he pushed himself up. Jorge ran to his side, crying out something in Hungarian, trying to correct himself afterwards.

_S-sir, please! You wound -_

_**LET ME GO!**_

He slammed his elbow into Jorge's face, and the crack of broken bone was as familiar as a bite into a biscuit. On sore legs, he stood, surveying his muddled surroundings. Where he was, he had no clue in hell, but that didn't stop him from moving forward. Jorge was curled up in a corner, finally broken - _Bastard_. He'd rot in hell for treason, that was for sure.

There was light ahead of Jun - his escape, his freedom. His body burned with exertion and he felt sick, but the light was there, and it was _beautiful_. The singing of a thousand alien songs was his angelic choir, guiding him out of the dreams and where he could run. Jorge be damned, Carter be damned, Emile and Six and Kat be damned; Reach was gone, lost, hopeless, too far out of reach. How ironic that the name of a planet was the name of a noun and verb, meaning to thrust out or to grab for, within the length and power of mortal man. Such was the fardel of those manipulated by red tape, wound like mummies and preserved for all to mock and cry at and see. Jun needed no tears, no pity - just freedom. Breathing room. Sweet, sweet air, and the blood pumping through his veins like liquid fire.

But there was pain, pain, pain - _Kat shot, Carter rammed, Jorge disintegrated, Emile and Six MIA _- and the illusions, the voices, the memories were a tidal wave. Jun was drowning ... asphyxiated. Dead and gone, already interred in the earth, gasping. He could not reach, not for the sun nor fallen Reach. He could only succumb, weakness his friend, his ally, its midnight blanket taking him and smothering him protectively. Unconsciousness was the most merciful blessing he could be given as poisons and chemicals made his body their own.

* * *

Everything was a mess.

No landmarks, no lines in the sand. A void, an abyss, that trapped Jun within his own mind. He had been pumped full of something, that was for sure, but he was too far gone at the moment to discern what. All he could hear, see, smell was the battlefield. He was staring down a gun, then staring at a helmet, and everything in-between. To some, he was dreaming. To others, he was merely visiting old stomping grounds at night. The crickets of a far-off place - if they could be called that - could not make their lullaby heard to him.

Dizzy ... woozy. That was the best way to describe himself, at the moment. _All the world's a stage, and I'm just on strings, Jorge. _Jorge did not answer, and why should he? He was in slipspace with something broken. Jun laughed, the sound hollow and flat in tone. He was entertaining himself with these visions, these mumbles in his head, and his thoughts were more helter-skelter than before. They took the forms of images more than words now, Reach and Harmony blurred, glassed and Elite-ridden. He popped their heads open, the fluid in their bodies rippling with deadly shock when he missed, and they sprouted violet flowers instead of blood. A much prettier sight to behold, indeed.

_You still here, Six?_

So the quiet one had returned. Sure, she talked to the civilians, but only because it was business. When business was not as usual, Six had a tendency to shut up. _You were a killer and you kept quiet. They praised you a lot, Six the Jane Doe. (But I bet you would have called me stupid to call you Jane.)_

_My name isn't Six. That's a number, sir._

_And you're just a statistic, _Jun retorted. _Six of six-hundred, six-thousand, six-million. Numbers, numbers, numbers and letters; they never give us a real name. We go by the short little monikers our parents gave us, and all the world's a stage and I'm just **dancing**._

_... Sir, you look very ill. It's the middle of the night; you should sleep._

_But Six, I have all the time to sleep in the world, _said Jun._ Call me crazy, but I'm not tired. I spent longer days cooking off bullets and making the world hate my desserts._

_That's very interesting, sir._

_Oh, but **how**, Six!_ cried Jun, waving an arm weakly about for effect. _Gunfire is a song! Firearms are an art! Whimsical days huffing gunpowder, and all I get is the "vigilant eye" title! Crap and bull as far as the eye can see, Six!_

_And they say I've lost it, and now you too ..._

He was silenced by the feel of something wiping at his brow. Jun let out a sigh of relief, closing his eyes. Six could be so nice off the battlefield; every woman was soft at heart, correct? That was what his father had said. That was what was supposed to have made him so appealing to Jun's mother. Their son rose his hand, gently taking Six's own. She flinched back in his grip, surprised.

_But you've come back, haven't you, sweet Six?_

He planted his lips on Six's own, high and giddy with the sensation. He breathed in, Six's grey eyes widening, and he was in ecstasy -

Until she smacked him across the face. And punched him in the stomach. And ran.

* * *

Sára was furious, swearing in English and Hungarian and looking about to lose it. Izabella was arguing loudly with Doctor Araya, snarling at him in Hungarian about how "he could be so reckless" with who he brought into the camp. Her nose was still aching and bent from the injury delivered, and she was rife with indignation about the advances made on Sára. She was only nineteen, for God's sake, and the mostly-female village _did not _appreciate the local men trying to get their hands on one of their own now that she was "fair game". Araya tried to be diplomatic, saying it was a mix of drugs and fever that was making the stranger act strangely.

[„I've upped the sedatives to keep this from happening again,"] said Araya. [„From my observations, I believe we are dealing with a mental health case as much as a physical one. I hate to say it, but this isn't the first time I've heard of suicide by gulper."]

[„And you expect _us _to handle it in case he snaps?"] snapped Izabella. [„Had Sára not been able to defend herself, who knows what he might have done with her! I _will not _keep such a sick-minded individual in my house - not now, not ever!"]

The argument continued, with Sára eventually stomping off to get her mind off of the surprise kiss Izabella's "guest" had planted on her. Within the confines of the hut, Jun's mind was reeling, and he, too was in shock about his behaviour.

"I'm s-sorry ... " he murmured. The blows had made him lucid enough for just a moment, and in that moment, he realized that Six wasn't there. His eyes grew wet and began to sting, and in him mixed shame and a coming back to the world. But, Araya was a good doctor, and it wasn't long before the sedatives began to drag him back into sleep.

"Six, Six ... she wasn't Six, I'm sorry ... "

* * *

_Author's Note: A reader pointed out to me that a deformed URL was in the middle of a paragraph; this has been fixed and I apologize for the error. A shared computer is sometimes used to edit and post chapters; I was trying to copy-paste a sentence and something else was on the clipboard._


	6. Chapter III

_(Halo & ILoveBees (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate, uncensored language. This fic is on the harder end of the PG-13 scale; viewer discretion is advised._

_Note: Text surrounded by squared brackets ([ and ]) is to be assumed that of a non-English language.)_**  
**

* * *

**- _Chapter II_**_**I -**_

* * *

Szendrey Izabella had despicable taste in company. She could appear as innocent and concerned a citizen as she wanted, but the truth was well-known. The girl did not stay outside of the hut for long; putting as much distance between the maniac, the man-chaser and every other potential problem with them was the newest priority. She did not have time for this - there were enough problems in the rainforests already without some company-desperate stranger lunging at her.

Nobody needed help at the firepit. The laundry of the various villagers had been tucked and folded, and the ice machine did not require much water. Though late in the evening, Tatara's hours close to Earth's own, Sára still felt as if there were so much to be done. A result of coping with anger by attacking at something viciously or denying its existence outright? Perhaps. Araya had always said Sára had too much of a tendency to go one of two ways. What did he know, anyways?

As Araya and Izabella continued to bicker about the stranger, one of the younger village girls, Lynn, waved Sára over. Hurrying over to the seventeen-year old with a bit too much vehemence, Sára asked, "Yeah?"

"Um ... you okay?" asked Lynn. "I mean ... "

"Just forget it," snapped Sára, not in the mood to discuss the current matter further. "What do you want?"

"Um ... I have to go and get some more bathwater ... " began Lynn. "I don't want to go down to the river alone. Can you - "

"Sure, why not," replied Sára. "I'll go get my own bucket so you have extra."

"Thank you," said Lynn, giving a small smile. Sára's heated expression didn't change, the Reach Hungarian moving back to her shanty with purpose. Araya and Izabella were still arguing - good. The last thing she needed was the old tart trying to be "motherly" again. Sára already got enough of an attempt at a parental figure from Doctor Araya.

* * *

Lynn was a skinny, short girl, making her look more childish than her true age. With brown-black hair the same shade as Sára's, her blue eyes on the greyer side of the colour range, one might say the two were distantly related. That fact could be a good thing, as flirtatious travellers heading down river could be a source of enormous pressure. What better excuse to avoid unwanted paramours than to have "the big sister" glaring angrily at them with a large rock in hand?

"It'll only be a few minutes," said Lynn as the two made their way down the well-used trail leading to the Letician banks. Both held torches in one hand, the other full of a swinging bucket that sometimes clanked in the darkness. Beyond them, glowing eyes flashed and winked from the trees, strange creatures of the nocturne leaping through the ribbing shadows of vine-ensnared yonder. The pair occasionally shone a light into the surrounding darkness, just in case something bigger was hiding in the flora. So far, the path's edges were devoid of beasts of concern. "I don't want to be stuck when we can't see anything."

"I figured," muttered Sára, sweeping her light over the path in front of her. From above, the barest tinges of dying sunlight tried miserably to slip through the canopy. "I can barely see anything in front of me even now. Look, there's the river; let's get your water and go."

The two women hurried towards the bank, both pausing for a minute to poke at the mud with a large stick brought from camp. Upon finding no gulpers, wallowing piggapines or any other creature, the women stepped forward. Another shine of the light over the water was made in case an aquatic predator was hiding. Again, nothing, and they reached down to scoop.

"I've never seen Izabella so angry before," said Lynn, dipping her bucket down enough to get a good dose of water. She then shone her torch in it, looking for creepy-crawlies that might jump out when they were away from the river. "She loves guests."

"She also likes to run around," said Sára, doing much the same as Lynn did with her bucket. "When it's her talking, you never know who comes into camp. I don't know why she's given so much power; most of us aren't strangers to living like this."

"Izabella's diplomatic," said Lynn, dumping out a portion of her water. The disposing stream was lit up, and a pair of harmless baby gulpers fell back into the embrace of the Leticia. "She knows how to talk. Her choice in men is a bit lacking, I think, but she and the Doctor are very good friends. I don't think he would have stayed in the village if they weren't."

"My point exactly," replied Sára, dumping out her entire bucket as a nasty glob of scum bubbled to the water's surface. "We can't trust many around here. We're in the middle of a place where two sides, both heavily armed and easily pissed off, are trying to kill each other. They don't have much of a rein on their men when said men are out in the field. We know _nothing _about this guy, and he keeps babbling on about someone named 'Jorge' and 'Six' and 'Carter' and whoever. How do we know he's not one of Roald's or Hawk's?"

(Despite her tone, Sára could not help but feel a sense of recognition at that first name. It made her curious that she did, but that curiosity turned to unease. Thinking of the numerous people she had met who had called themselves Jorge - and the number what were less than inclined to good - she shoved the thought away. There was no need to start warming up to thoughts based on a few scant ideas.)

Lynn shrugged. "I can't argue with that," she said. "I'm just happy Doctor Araya is here. Did you hear about how sick Anezka was getting?"

"How else can I not when the laundry line is populated by the most gossipy people in the village?" asked Sára. "Besides, some of us saw her when she was brought back. I don't think Ms. Reinhardt appreciates Ms. Swann not keeping an eye on her children, don't you?"

Lucy Reinhardt was, _de facto_, the unofficial mayor of the village. She had founded the settlement first, and had encouraged other women and their families to build with her. An extender of olive branches if there ever was one, her one goal in life, described by her, was to take as many women and children out of the back woods as possible and give them a safe place to stay. Though mostly in a trickle, families of widows, separated wives and single mothers, among others, had come along out of gratitude to no longer be preyed upon. In a forest not limited to predators of the alien variety, any safe haven was welcome.

"I'm surprised Ms. Swann is still in the village," said Lynn. "Ever since she nearly led one of Hawk's boys back, everybody's jumped on her when she slips up. I mean, if she was just alone, it wouldn't be much of a loss, but she's got six children. Her oldest is eleven. You do the math."

"But they're all misbehaved and bratty," said Sára. "They're constantly complaining and chasing after anything small enough they can get their hands on. Don't you remember that time they brought a zotz home and used it as a doll? It was screaming in agony, loud enough to get _anybody's_ attention, and all Penelope did was wave them off and tell them to throw it away. They broke its wings _eight different times _before I came over and dropped a rock on the damn thing's head to put it out of its misery!"

"You should tell Lucy," said Lynn, finding the next bucket of water she scooped to appear acceptable. Sára's scoop only picked up more debris, said debris smelling suspiciously like human waste. Closer inspection with the flashlight seemed to clarify that - and it seemed wormy, no less. Wrinkling her nose in disgust, Sára dumped the water back out again, shining the light on the ebbing flow below. "She'd give Ms. Swann a piece of her mind."

"I did," said Sára, "but that doesn't stop them from running around and killing things. They've even got other children doing it; you know Yvonette's boy, Martin? He threw a rock at a microraptor and stomped on its head. Granted, he said he always wanted to eat one, but still - "

"He's almost thirteen!" cried Lynn, looking disgusted. "What the hell is a boy two years older than the Swanns' kids' taking a leaf from _them_?"

"Don't ask me," said Sára, attempting to scoop up another bucket of water. To her satisfaction, the latest scoop turned out clean. "I'm not the parenting type. Come on, we have what we need."

The two girls turned away from the river, making haste in the growing dark. The river was otherwise silent, saying no goodbye as it continued to gurgle on, the waste-stricken road of the forest's survivors. As Sára and Lynn headed for the safety of their village, things of the dark came out to play, trotting along the shore and lapping up the dirty water. In the bushes, more and more rustled as the night's grip came full, oblivious to the pair as they were to the wild beyond the trees.

* * *

[„Where have you two been?"]

Izabella was looking at the pair like they had just snuck out with a pair of boys. Both adolescents flinched back, surprised, Lynn frowning at how angry Ms. Szendrey looked. Sára only glared at the woman with the kind of expression that proceeded a backhanding. [„The river,"] the latter stated matter-of-factly.

[„Without telling one of the older women?"] snapped Izabella. [„Dammit Sára, there are _mercenaries _out at this time of night! What were you and Lynn_ thinking_?"]

[„Nobody asked for your opinion,"] said Sára coolly. [„Had I felt there was a problem, I would have went to one of the others. I'm nineteen, Ms. Szendrey."]

[„And a ripe age for some of the wicked around here to try and go after you!"] snapped Izabella. Lynn was slowly slinking away from the arguing pair, feeling it was wise to avoid getting in-between the two Hungarians. Besides, she couldn't understand the pair in the first place - she was American. (Florida-born, actually.) [„You've already been grabbed at, my dear, and you don't need more of them chasing after you!"]

[„I don't need this from you!"] snapped Sára back. [„You sound like an old crone and you're about as ugly as one! LYNN!"]

The Floridan understood her name amongst the sentences of Hungarian. She slowly turned around to face the arguing women. "Yeah ... ? "

"Don't stand there like an idiot! Come and get your water!" said Sára, holding out her bucket. Lynn quickly scurried over and took the extra bathwater, mumbling some sort of thanks and then hurrying off. Izabella threw up her arms in exasperation, huffing.

[„And now you've gone and given her your bucket! At least one for each house, remember?"]

[„Screw you, I'm done."]

Izabella opened her mouth to say something, but then gawked as Sára delivered a one-fingered salute. She again chastised the younger Hungarian, saying something about manners and all the obscene gestures Sára knew, but the nineteen-year old wasn't listening. All she wanted to do was grab some cooking supplies and go to the communal firepit - as she didn't trust lighting a fire in her shanty, what with its wattle-and-daub walls and leaf-straw thatched roof - to make something to eat. The crone could harp on her all she want, but the chances of something good coming out of Izabella's mouth were slim to none.

"Oomph!"

Something tall and sturdy rammed into Sára - or rather, Sára rammed into it. What she thought was a tree or some sort of pole was actually Doctor Araya, who was looking down concernedly at the young woman. Sára glowered, asking in a low growl, "_Yes_?"

"Sára, we need to talk," said Araya. "I was speaking earlier to - "

"Not interested," muttered her, shoving the doctor out of the way. "I'm hungry."

"Sára, please," said Araya, walking after her, "let's just sit down for a minute. I need to ask you about your medications."

"You've already asked me enough," said Sára, sounding quite matter-of-fact for someone who knew little about medicine beyond basic first-aid and what she was taking. "That also includes doing you _favours_; I am _not _going back into that hut to check on your _patient_. Either Izabella does it, or you take care him. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to eat."

"Sára, I might be able to make it so you only need one medication instead of two, or even three."

The Hungarian paused, turning her head ever-so-slightly to look at him. Eyeing the Doctor carefully, her annoyed expression turned thoughtful, yet still slightly wary. Araya kept his face neutral, staring back at Sára with a look of indifference, yet experience. He wasn't unused to patients objecting to treatment, and nor was he unused to Sára's vehemence at any sense of a lack of control. Given her past experiences, he knew it was typical.

"I'm listening," she finally said after a tense couple of minutes. She turned to fully face him, stiffly but willingly. "What is it you have in mind?"

* * *

Inside her shanty, the two were across from each other - Sára sitting on her bed, Araya standing at the door. In Sára's hands, she held a large, white pill bottle, sealed with a heavy cork. In the light of a high-powered torch, rarely used thanks to the large, hard-to-find battery, she examined the label closely.

"What's cameronine?"

"Ground Cameron's vine placed into pill form, much like a fibre capsule," replied Araya. "Easy to find because the plant it's made from grows commonly in Tatara. It's an approved drug in the UNSC Medical Corps; they use it as a sleep aid, and in higher doses, an anaesthetic. It was what morphine was in 1940 to troops on the field."

Sára's brows knit, and she looked up. "So let me get this straight," she said, her voice already turning to vinegar. Araya could already feel an argument about to come on. "You want me to practically knock myself out at night, in a place full of things that, if you don't hear the right twig snap, could sneak up on me and have me as a late-night snack?"

"Sára, I'm trained in psychiatry," replied Araya, "and even _I'm_ losing faith in having you take more medications. However, there is nowhere I can recommend you to, nor take you or have you go to. I know this type of cure isn't working out for you, but until I can find a psychologist willing to make trips or lives close enough, we have to make do. Izabella can hear you screaming more and more at night; even _Lucy_, who is supposed to be leading you all, is having concerns. Sára, this isn't about Mrs. Szendrey being a fussbudget - you are _sick_, and I'm only trying to get you better!"

"I'm not sick!" Sára barked, standing up. "If anyone's sick, it's that _bastard_ you've penned up next door! I'm perfectly fine, and unless I say something leave me _alone_!"

"Sára, enough!" said Araya, matching his patient's glare with one of his own. "You don't have to follow my advice, but I'll be damned if I let you act like this! You came to me first, and asked for my help; I have given it to you without question. I do not _have to_ give you options; I can prescribe a simple medication and hope it'll work. I have gone to hell and _back _trying to find where to get this. I have lost sleep _trying_ to find the right people that might provide a better answer for me. You may be able to lip off at Mrs. Szendrey, and everybody else in this settlement, but hear this: you are only hurting yourself by doing it. You are nineteen years old, so act like it!"

It was then that Sára, reaching the end of her patience for that day, spat something _very _foul in Hungarian and threw the cameronine bottle back at Araya. With ease from practise, he caught it, and stepped back as Sára sent forth more fiery words in her native tongue. He opened his mouth to retort back, but the door to her shanty slammed shut, and he was left outside to stare at it.

From behind him, Izabella piped up with, [„Well_ that_ certainly went well."]

* * *

The evening meal was all but forgot as Sára retired to an early bed. Outside, the campfire crackled, milling with cooking activity and the smells of local foods. Appetite deflated by strained tolerance, and therefore, lack of emotional energy to deal with any more arguing, the Hungarian decided to sleep. She had to wait a couple more hours before taking more medication, but that wasn't a problem to Sára. She was dependant enough already, and the thought of some sort of "wonder drug" that potent gave strength to addiction fears. If there was one thing Sára would not live as, it was high on substances, perhaps driving herself to the point one day where she popped enough pills to kill herself. Sleeping off a hit, only to be wrapped in a dying dream, with an empty bottle beside her that would make her cry if she were lucid ...

The thoughts were shoved to the back of her mind. She was thinking dramatically - this was _not_ a soap opera she was living in. Araya had got the message, and had harassed her no further with suggestions for medications. If things became bad enough, Sára would ask for help, but she'd tolerate no hovering until then. There were more important things for him and her to focus on - his patients and the crazy stranger, her survival and keeping herself in one piece.

Thinking of the stranger made Sára more confused than anything, now that the shock of what he had done had waned off into a tense indignation. Despite her anger towards Izabella's guest, however, she couldn't help but ponder the name. Jorge ... Jorge. It was familiar, but as Sára tried to dig around in her mind, she felt a headache coming on. For most of her years since Reach, a lot of things had been ... repressed, for lack of a better word. After the planet's fall, she had been a wreck. The UNSC had helped her, sure, but it hadn't been enough. Her thoughts had broken up, and then the pieces had broken up even more, and it was like trying to sort glass shards into boxes. Things fell through the cracks - mostly about Reach, and her father, and what had happened as everyone tried to evacuate. Yet, in her sleep, it all came back to her.

There was no rhyme or reason to many of her thoughts anymore. Maybe that was why she was always so frustrated. Then again, it could always have been spotty medication refills and a lack of sleep.


	7. Chapter IV

_(Halo & ILoveBees (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate, uncensored language. Certain substances mentioned in this chapter. This fic is on the harder end of the PG-13 scale; viewer discretion is advised.)_**  
**

* * *

**- _Chapter IV_**_** -**_

* * *

Gary's enormous form could be heard meandering through the trees. Just as branch and bush cracked beneath his movement, so too did Janissary's back crack. The _Monthly-Be-Gone_, despite Jan's best efforts to take enough to last, was already wearing off. That familiar, seizing tightness was beginning to crawl up her backside; sometimes, Jan was tempted to cut her own back open and undo the muscles herself. For all that she was a SPARTAN One-Point-One, one might think she could handle monthly pains better. But no — it only seemed to be worse for her compared to the other women at Roald's camp. He had said something one about enhancements interfering with natural bodily processes.

As the all-too-familiar weariness of hormone imbalances set in, Jan rubbed at her face. As soon as she dumped off Reggie's "payment", she was going to pop pills, take a shower in the makeshift bathroom, and then sleep until the late morning. Even though it wasn't the best during a bad cramp, anyone who tried _anything _with her hammock promptly got a Magnum round in their direction. She had inherited her late mother's temper, after all.

Speaking of tempers, Jan still wasn't sure if allowing Gary to come along was one of her better ideas. She could have stopped and fired a bullet into his eye as soon as they were far enough. However, considering the fact that the snake had killed _a fully-grown **mother **cockatrice_, Jan would take her chances. Had it not been for the near-legendary monster interrupting Gary's chase, Jan wasn't too sure that she'd still be there that night.

Gary gave a hiss, coming close to the trail beside her. She barely got a glimpse of his eye-shine, and he seemed to be looking at her. She stopped, going rigid, one hand tightly grasping the handle of a Magnum. The serpent continued to gaze at her with one eye, turning his head and flicking his tongue. Jan glared, ready to run, shoot or both if need be.

The snake turned away, and much to Jan's surprise, slithered off in the direction she had been heading. In fact, he seemed more assured than she did, moving down beside the path like he had done it before. Feathered serpents _did_ like to hunt around Roald's camp ... but Jan couldn't help but wonder: had Gary been there before? Some of the noises near the camp at night sounded to be made by an unusually large creature. Roald had worried a couple of times about a stray cockatrice, but something in Jan's gut made her doubt that idea. She took a step forward, her back giving another twinge.

**_"Rrrrrr ... "_**

Jan quickly turned her head, glancing again at where Gary had gone. Moments later, a loud explosion sounded, globs of blue flying everywhere, and Jan had to get down. The edges of the path seemed to explode in a flashing flurry of machine gun fire.

* * *

_"Wyoming, this is Shock Team - target found. Excellent work with the tracker."_

"Not a problem at all, dear old chap," said Wyoming, sucking on the end of his pipe with a grin. "You'd think Roald's men would be paranoid enough to search _everything_. I guess they like their drugs."

The radioman on the other end chuckled. _"That they do," _he said. _"Say, what's in that little pack, anyways? Tobacco? Khat?"_

"Neither, actually. It's concentrated serpent urine, taken from a breeding male, that's been mixed with a native plant. Both are highly potent in inducing a psychotic state if Gary gets a whiff."

_"Hm. Clever."_

_

* * *

_

Jan had a few choice words to say to the bastards that were firing at her. However, all she could do was draw her Magnums and crouch-run, Gary snarling and snapping somewhere beyond the trees. A pair of lucky rounds skidded across her back - she yelped, then turned and fire madly at her attackers. One yelped as he was nailed in the shoulder, but his partner nearly got the better of Jan. Another series of bullets nicked her leg, tearing through the fabric of her trousers like claws.

_What now? _Jan thought to herself irritably. Perhaps she was closer to the river than she thought ... or maybe the old bastard had sold her out. Her lip curled up in disgust, just as she ducked behind a free tree. The fact that Gary had attacked her earlier was making her wonder if that had been on purpose. Then again, why wonder? Why not accept the fact that Tatara was the planet of everything trying to kill her?

_Screw it. The bull stops here._

Gunfire pelted the thick tree, but quickly ceased as the gun had to reload. Janissary took that moment to run, bolting across the path as fast as she could. Rather than make a break for the river, however, she crossed and promptly jumped on one of the gunners with a yell. Before he could even hit the ground, there was a gunshot, and the back of his head on the ground. He fell into the gore, eyes staring blankly, as his partner tried to fire.

Jan promptly turned, kicked the man hard in the groin, then fired again. With a Cheshire Cat's grin, she went for the machine gun, quickly manoeuvring it around and finishing reloading. The barrel spun as muzzle flashes lit the nearby foliage, cries of pain going up where a few soldiers were hit. Jan would relentlessly continue to fire, twisting and turning to get the best shot she could.

And, only when a pile of hot shells lay at her feet, the forest mostly silent save for curses and the stomping of brush, she ran. Behind her, whoever remained from her frenzied gunfire hounded her with a vengeance. Gunshots went off, skimming across the foliage as Jan kept ducking for cover.

* * *

Gary roared as the battle raged around him. Bullets slammed into his hide like sharp pebbles, and he swung his scarred face to and fro. His giant jaws snapped down on flora and mud, desperately trying to grab at something. The multitude of mercenaries surrounding him cared not about Wyoming's pet; the serpent was a liability, sent after anyone Reggie disliked. As much as the man worked with Hawk, he had his own agenda, and more than one man had been gobbled up by his oversized lizard. Hawk was actually expecting the snake to somehow be incapacitated in the fight.

Such thoughts, however, were stupid ones. Not only was Gary an efficient hunter, he was quite resilient, as his fight with the cockatrice had proved to Jan. Angered enough at being ambushed, he slammed his front half down on the ground, wriggling his tail back and forth. With some effort, he managed to get it airborne, swinging to and fro and sweeping several shooters off their feet. Bones cracked, people yelped, and two people were killed in that attack alone. When he finally slammed his tail back down, another mercenary was killed, unlucky enough to be caught running under it.

Getting his head in the air, he lunged towards a tree. Branches of the lower canopy broke and cracked, and two snipers fell from their nests. One was caught completely in Gary's jaws, crushed to death in an instant, and the other had his arm bitten off where he was caught. The screaming man fell - or rather, was thrown in the air, Gary throwing his head back to swallow the other. When the survivor came back down, he had been tossed high enough to be killed, and promptly broke his neck when he hit the ground. If he even survived that, Gary would run him over when the serpent slithered after another group of attackers.

* * *

From the sounds of it, Gary was taking out the mercenaries quite easily. His supple body sped across the undergrowth, and men were screaming to shoot and run. For the time being, Janissary was no longer the focus of their gunfire, allowing her to put on another burst of speed. The river couldn't have been far; all she had to do was run in the general direction of -

Her train of thought was interrupted by a machete swinging at her head. It just _barely _missed her, leaving a small flesh wound on one cheek. The mercenary didn't miss a beat, chopping away left and right like he was cutting through jungle. Jan dove under his latest swing, managing to aim her elbow for his solar plexus. He gasped as it connected, but his pain tolerance was higher than Jan thought.

_Squelch!_

Jan bit back at a yelp as the tip of the machete slammed into her shoulder. Warm blood flowed down her shoulder, drawn down with such force that Jan could feel the blade sinking deeper as it moved. Without really aiming, she kicked the man in the knee, causing him to jerk back a bit. It was enough to pull the blade out slightly, and Jan pulled herself down and back. There was not enough of a point for it to remain in her flesh easily, and it dislodged.

Then, before anything else could happen, a body slammed into him and Jan. Both were sent flying, blood splattering against them from a man who was missing both arms. On their direct opposite on the path, Gary reared up and roared loudly.

* * *

The bullet holes stung like burning pinpricks for Gary. His hide would protect him from serious damage, so long as he kept his head above the line of fire. However, like one might feel towards a stinging swarm of bees, he wanted it to desperately go away. Though he had enough strength (and a bit of help from his "owner") to shrug off the cockatrice venom, he still wasn't up to par. Added to that was the fact one of his eyes had been gouged out; he could feel it smarting, swelling with infection, and he could no longer see on that side. The sense of weakness, of something wrong and sharply painful, made him want to curl up and hide. Yet, as loyal as ever, he had followed the girl as his "owner" had commanded.

Below him, however, came a scent that threw everything else out of his mind. His nostrils flared as he inhaled, the testosterone- and blood-ridden odour making his one eye widen. Instinct, pure and unadulterated, swam through his mind like a fish. His mind blurred, whirling, and he swung his head around to face the opposite trees.

As Janissary James had fallen, a sharp rock sliced through the leg of her trousers, straight into the pocket and through the pouch of unknown substance. The wetness of the ground, her sweat and her blood combined into a dangerous mix for the snake. The stroke of luck Reggie had been banking on had struck; the side of Jan's leg, to Gary, now smelt like the unwanted fragrance of a breeding serpent male. Even out of their breeding season, male feathered serpents _never _took kindly to the pheromones of a rival.

The snake lunged forward, roaring again, opening his great jaws wide. Jan screamed a curse and jumped out of the way, the mercenary with the machete caught in Gary's attack. With a great clamp down, the serpent bit him into pieces, and then swerved around and went after Jan.

_**"RAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!"**_

_**

* * *

**_Mercenaries were screaming in surprise and fear around her. Janissary could barely hear them, adrenaline and blood pumping through her ears like water over a dam. There was a faint, strange odour coming from one leg, but she paid little attention to it; disgusting smells could easily be washed out. For now, Reggie's freakish pet had suddenly gone berserk, and the object of his temper seemed to be her. Jan was no fool; she had a feeling that her "client" wasn't as innocent as the face he put on.

Directions were forgot as she relied on reflex alone. To try and avoid an early death, she leapt over, swerved around, ducked under and dodged every obstacle she could head for. Gary ploughed along like a train, the flora and fleeing fauna racing by in dark blurs. Jan could only hope she wouldn't run into something worse.

She nearly fell onto her face as she jumped down some sort of outcropping. Landing on the ground with barely a grunt or pause, she took a burst of speed through some particularly thick undergrowth. In the back of her mind, a tinge of disgust wound up as she realized she was clawing through a scum patch. Spitting the green goo out when it got into her mouth, she tried to avoid the falling green from above. _If I get blood poisoning it's gonna be your head, Roald ..._

A loud slithering could be heard above her, but the movement was too quick and languid for her to avoid. Through the undergrowth, Gary's large maw came with fangs bared, and Jan was nearly swallowed whole. The loud snap seemed deafening, his immense body almost crushing her against what felt like the side of a cliff. _Great!_ she thought. _If he doesn't eat me, I'm going to be crushed like a bug!_

Gary paused, turning around as he felt Jan wriggle against his side. He reared up, snarling, giving a loud hiss as he aimed his head. Saliva, gore and bits of rainforest dropped from his head and fangs, and his one eye fixed on Jan like a hawk's would. With lightning precision, he lunged forward -

Only to be stuck with something glowing and hissing on the side of his nose. He paused, swinging upwards again, snapping and hissing in annoyance. To him, the strange, blue-sparking contraption was no more annoying as a bug -

_**BEWMCH!**_

From his mouth, an upper fang fell, along with a smaller tooth. Purple blood flew everywhere as Gary shook his head with a pained cry. Another plasma grenade landed on his neck, where it took out another sizable chunk. The following scream was even louder, and Jan sincerely wished she could move her arms to cover her ears.

"JAN!"

She looked above, a rope falling down towards her. As Gary's body relaxed, yet another grenade landed on his neck, blowing off another piece. Jan, as fast as her enhancements could allow, scaled the rope to find Sevens sitting on top of an outcropping. He grinned at her, holding a _grenade launcher _in his arms.

"Miss me?"

Jan glared in return. She _really _could have used that a few minutes earlier.

* * *

The feathered serpent's forked tongue repeatedly ran across his mouth. He snapped at the pain, trying to shake it away. The glowing balls had come out of nowhere, and he had barely heard anyone sneak up on him. Then again, he _was _trying to kill what he perceived as a rival male, so his lack of attention was justified.

The screeching of his target caught his attention, directed towards another human perched on an outcropping. His one eye widened in anger, and the feathered serpent lunged. Both of them yelped as his jaws scraped across the rock and into the cliff side, dislodging stone and plant alike. He quickly pulled back, aiming again, as they tried to scramble up the cliff.

Gary lunged again, but promptly got caught in the jaw with another grenade. It blew off half of his bottom incisors, along with a lower canine. He shrieked again, shaking his head, as his prey scrambled even faster. At the top of the cliff, more humans appeared, firing more and more grenades at the snake.

* * *

"We've got company!" cried Sevens, looking up. As those above fired at the snake, one knelt down with a knife. Grabbing Sevens's rope in one hand, the mercenary began to slice. Sevens and Jan promptly jumped off, clinging to the slippery cliffs as the rope severed and fell. Janissary couldn't help but glare again at Sevens.

"_What the hell is all this_?" she yelled over the noise around her.

"I don't know!" yelled Sevens. "All I know is that there were a bunch of dead guys and I picked a launcher off of 'em! They looked modified; I thought these things had explosive ammo!"

"Well _of course_ - they're _grenades_!" yelled Jan back. "The Covenant ones explode on impact, I think! These ones are UNSC; they take a few seconds!"

"Why are we even debating this?" asked Sevens. "You're supposed to know all about this stuff!"

"So are you!" snapped Jan irritably. "We talk later - climb!"

* * *

"There's more of them, Hawk?"

_"Unexpectedly, yes," _came the voice on the other end. _"The boys report that they're carrying UNSC models and armour, but no insignia. Might be damn plainclothes again."_

"Well that's a shame. I thought you had the area covered, all your channels encrypted, standard-procedure cloakings ... "

_"Cloakings don't do a damn with hearsay and word-of-mouth," _said Hawk. _"And, even though this God-forsaken hole is low on the patrol roster, the UNSC is obligated to stick its nose where it doesn't belong. I don't appreciate that unholy Brute-maggot lovechild of yours, either - "_

"Ah, now now Hawk," said Reggie, "that's not my fault. Your boys know very well that he likes to prowl around that trail. They should have been a bit more subtle; you should hold a staff meeting, maybe reorganize your numbers ... "

_"This **isn't **__the time for your brand of humour, Wyoming," _snapped Hawk._ "I've had enough trouble with the UNSC before. Money and favours can only go so far; if your snake eats someone, then **I'm** going to have the blame landed on me. Then there comes the investigation, the arrests, the seizure of property - "_

"Which means you're worrying about the package," said Reggie. He looked over to the side, the AI's container standing beside him. "You should know me better by now, Hawk; rest assured, your little prize won't be going anywhere soon. If the UNSC do become a problem, I have enough technology and experience on my hands that they'll not find a thing. I was a Freelancer, Hawk; I know how the system works. Deceit was my specialty, after all, and it still is. I don't need Gamma to plant a few false leads for me."

_

* * *

_

_Leads ... leads ... always false, always lying ... no, no, let me out, let me out ..._

_Who's there? What's going on?_

_Where is she? Where is she? Oh God, oh God, it's **him**! Not again!_

_Not again!_

_Not again!_

_Not again!_

_Not_

_not_

_not_

_**Process not found**_

_**Invalid p-p-p-parameters**_

___Out_

___Out_

___I need out_

___Calling, calling, calling ..._

___Who's there?_

___Oh, God, **not you**!_

**___Error, error, error ..._**

___I'm sinking_

___I'm sinking_

___Let me out_

___LET ME OUT_

___**LET ME OUT PLEASE!**_

___**

* * *

**Author's Note: Notice a swapped placename? Additional warnings at the top of chapters? Small rewrites of sentences and other snippets? If you notice any of these, don't panic. I'm combing through older chapters to correct spelling and grammatical errors that slipped by in past edits. I'll announce any major rewrites in author's notes, but most of my editing is tweaking the final copies to be a bit more readable. Thank you for your patience and support thus far. :)_

___Also, if you are interested, there is a new poll on my page. Now that I'm close to thirty stories, I've gone back and noticed that a lot of them are either _RvB___- or _Halo___-based. I'm trying to see if people want more _Hanna Is Not a Boy's Name___ fiction, or if people would like me to continue with a _Halo _trend.____  
_


	8. Chapter V

_(Halo & ILoveBees (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate, uncensored language. Potentially nightmare-fuelling imagery ahead; phobic triggers of death and the dark are possible upon reading. This fic is on the harder end of the PG-13 scale; viewer discretion is advised.)_**  
**

* * *

**- _Chapter V_**_** -**_

* * *

Death? Dying? No ... screaming. Just the prelude, the prologue, the beginning. His eyes fluttered open and his reality was not his own.

It began with a mud roof, and it ended in New Alexandria. It flitted back to the roof of the ship, a smoky sky, an endless sea of stars. Here, there, everywhere and he was back again, somehow attached to his body and still floating around. Thinking was hard - there was only dreaming, recalling, remembering.

Carter. Emile. Kat. Six. Jorge. Noble in command, and then everything went straight to hell. Reach for the stars, Reach for Reach, and have nothing, only broken pieces, strange thoughts and little slivers of glass in his hands. He could still remember the broken mirror, his sliced palms, the medics asking what the hell he was doing. He was SPARTAN and he was destruction, caving in on himself when mind no longer said, "Yes." He could not accept an order and let his conscience get away with it - it snarled, roared, pounded in his head in defiance. Denial. He had killed, he was SPARTAN, he couldn't take it anymore.

Blood. Their blood, his blood. The bitch Halsey taking him away from everything he had worked for, he had hoped for. They would have been alive, all of them, if something had been done. Injustice, unfairness - the UNSC, ONI especially, got off without a hitch. They would not let go; he had been forced to flee. Run like an animal, run and hide, tail tucked and shame dogging his every move. A coward, his mind was gone, his thoughts, his thoughts, his thoughts ...

An AI gone rampant. That was what he saw himself as. He wished for that reality, to be something so easily disposed of. When he thought too much, felt too much, saw and knew too much, the UNSC would deactivate him. He would be dead, slumbering, gone and deleted, and he wouldn't have to be like this. _The world_ wouldn't have to be like this. Code and data, erased, waved goodbye, and gone and forgotten except for a note on a record. Anonymity, history and nothing, no more.

They say in solipsism that the only reality is one's own. That, as soon as one dies, the world ends. Someone can only be sure of one's own reality, one's own deeds, what one's own eyes are showing. But what does solipsism say of those who can't figure out what reality is? Who have buried things in the dark, stuffed closets full of terrible things, and live only as fodder to be shot at? What was he, other than some sort of killing machine? Was he even born, real, with a family?

His parents were dead. That could have all been a lie. That could have just been a motivation, a truth fed to make him _hate_. ONI was very, very good at that, at manipulation and deceit and playing the heart like a harp. He burned, scorched, screamed at the landscape of his mind, beating his fists on the walls of his brain, his rage and frustration held back by formless visions. He could not move, he could not do anything! He just wanted to break something, to let go, to run into his so-called "parents'" arms and feel something good again. He was gone as they were gone, and he just falling, falling, the black hole open and wide below him. It would never swallow him up, just a void of torture, so lifeless and large that he wept at the sight of it.

Oh God, he wanted to go home. Even if home was a hole he could crawl into and die in, he wanted it. He wanted so badly to feel warmth, to be free of his insecurities, to never have to pick up a gun again. He wanted to float across the universe like a breeze, see the birth of every star, sing every joyous song and see every morning's sunrise. Negativity, positivity, the scale was frigging _broken_; yin and yang, as many of his home city had called it. That ever-swirling, ever black-and-white icon of balance, romanticized and stylized, now shattered and applying to nothing. What was the scientific word for it ... ? Entropy ... ?

He had to scream, but he croaked like a frog. He wept, stripped of all dignity. She wasn't Six, she wasn't Kat, Jorge certainly wasn't a woman - break, break, _break_! Break did his heart, his hopes. Death taunted him, waving its hourglass in his face, asking him why he hadn't given up. Why he had still clung on to life, to feeling, and why he was too much of a coward. The survival instinct, ever strong, continued to wax and brew, and it plotted against him. The shattered psyche of its host was a mere inconvenience, a simple obstacle to be overcome in time. The strength of the human spirit, the _need _to breathe and walk and breed and _live_, sang like a canary. As much as the SPARTAN hated it, it held up an iron wall, reinforced with the titanium that was his own secret will. Somewhere, in the back of that disorganized and cluttered mind, there was a want to see another day. The five senses would drink in all, his mind would be clear and free, and he could live out his life in peace. Then, when he reflected on how low he had sunk, how far he had gone, he would shudder and shoo such thoughts away. All in hypothesis, of course.

But for now, his mind was in a blank, hazy filter. He could only watch helplessly as the tape of his memories replayed over and over. Their life, their death, his kills, the final terror of his prey. Man could not stand seeing so much hurt and destruction, and killers had to become hard. He had never relapsed until after Reach, when everything snapped and curled in on itself like a vulnerable foetus. Those ONI bastards knew nothing, too busy covering up and being heavy-handed with those who questioned too much. They knew nothing of that horrible, horrible feeling, a worm inside the gut that screamed, "_**RUN!**_" at every grenade and ship explosion. They knew nothing of how people purposefully missed, shooting off rounds to intimidate in hopes of not killing anything. They knew nothing of what ran through his mind when he saw the eyes - God, the _eyes_ - of his targets. Windows to the last thought, the last breath, only to disappear when heads literally rolled. That bond, there for just a second, was the thing that made his humanity writhe and scream in disbelief and grief. He ignored it, yes, but one could only ignore for so long the undoings of a perfectly sound mind. To think of a time when he thought ... normally ... God, what_ was_ normal? Not jumping at every crack and snap in the dark? Not wondering how many headshots one made in a week? Not wondering if Kat would laugh at how a Grunt squealed as its gas tank ran out, crying and screaming for a breath, reduced to a crazy, suicidal charge?

He was not supposed to feel for the enemy. He was supposed to feel for his comrades, his brothers-in-arms. He was supposed to shoot, kill, rinse and repeat, covered in the blood and gore of God knew how many alien races. And even then, he didn't stop there - if a human target stared down at him, he was supposed to ignore that fact. From man or woman to just an object, just something to hit, and celebrate the death of. God, God, dear friggin' _Lord_. It played with his head so badly when he went from capping aliens to capping _his own people._

He was going to be sick, but the bile held back. He had to stop being so morbid. He had to focus on shutting out the hazy images that flew past him. Everything was gone, so he, too, should be gone, retreating into the confines of his own mind.

_

* * *

_

_A scream. Footsteps. Something ungodly roaring in the dark. Reach flashed by his eyes until he snapped into another reality, staring at the mud roof again. Only this time, someone else stared down at him, blonde-haired and blue-eyed. In the background, people were crying out, one particularly loud mother wailing about a lost child. His blood ran cold and he froze, the fall of liquid and sharp reek of urine following._

"No, no, please calm!" _cried that blue-eyed person's voice - a woman by the sounds of it. _"Please move! We must go! Must go, very much so!"

_Someone called a name - Izabella. Her head snapped in response; it must have been her own. She whispered in broken English, soothing him as best she could, but it was no use. The violent state was throwing him back into that near-catatonic terror, his fight-or-flight switch flipping back and forth. He struggled, crying out in pain and frustration, but she would not let go. Another set of hands landed on his shoulders._

"Sir, please be calm!" _cried an Arabic voice - it startled him, as he thought it was Spanish at first. The voices of his youth came back for just a second. _"We are being attacked. We need to evacuate you from your current resting area so that we can deal with the threat with as few casualties as possible. You are seriously wounded - please, don't struggle!"

_The ungodly scream of a wild creature. Branches snapping, smaller beasts crying. Women and children running, trying to shepherd the weak and young away from the monster. He saw its scaly form move through the trees, something human dangling from its mouth. He noticed now that the mother was no longer screaming, and that guns were clicking as they were armed._

"AIM FOR THE EYES AND HEAD! WATCH FOR THE VENOM AROUND ITS MOUTH!"

_A fierce, strong voice, just like Kat's or Six's. He stared in awe at the blurry figures, then at the scaled monster skulking around in the dark. It was barely illuminated by a nearby fire, and snapped and shrieked in anger and hunger. A demon, he mused, that demanded sacrifice. Perhaps it had crawled out of his mind and was wreaking havoc on these women too._

_Muzzles flashed. The monster screamed. It whipped a barbed tail and stomped at the earth, enraged that the lesser beings had inflicted pain upon it. It lunged forward with a snap, bits of fluid tar flying from its mouth, a glob smacking one woman in the face. She screamed and fell backwards, only to be caught in the creature's jaws and crushed. He saw this all as he was helplessly dragged, more muzzles flashing as they tried to force it back._

"IZABELLA!"

_A great growl rumbled up in front of them. He was dragged backwards as something lunged, its muzzle long and beak-like, serrated teeth lined everywhere. They were like a formation of soldiers with guns a-glinting, wielded to fight back and tear apart with reckless abandon. Near-feline eyes stared back in cunning, in calculation, and the creature hurried forward with a wicked claw. It aimed, it struck, blood flew, and the blonde woman screamed. That mouth hung over him like the void in his dreams._

_More gunfire. The beast winced back, his heart pounding wildly. The two of them were dragged back, the ground rough and bumpy, close to the fire where the enemy dared not tread. People were gasping and speaking, horrified, and rushing to his and her side in a mass. He flinched, holding up his arms, confused and overwhelmed. The nightmares in his head flashed, bared their teeth and grinned, and every concerned face was that of something else. Open-jawed squids, saurian abominations, prawn-like gas-breathers and whatever else he had fought stared down at him._

_The fighting sounded hopeless. There was more than one or two - maybe even three or four. They spoke of the attackers in great fear, the stuff of legend that one wished wasn't real. Reloading was frantic, and those not careful enough were snatched up by the beasts to be eaten. Beside him, the blonde woman sobbed, her tears shining and fresh in the firelight. Blood covered her oft-stitched dress, and she clutched at her stomach wound, choking on bloody dribbles from her mouth._

_She was no different than Six or Kat. She was as human as he was, and she was hurting. She tried to babble in Jorge's language - God, he wished the old SPARTAN was there to translate - and the Arabic man tried to calm her. He could only stare dully for a moment, then reached out a hand. He couldn't watch someone die ..._

"H-hey ... "

She looked over at him, terrified and bewildered. The glassy gaze of shock was spreading over those perfectly sea-blue irises.

"It ... it 'kay ... 'kay? Jus' ... stop ... pan'kin' ... "

_He was so tired, and the words were malformed on his lips. Yet, he managed a smile, and the Arabic man smiled approvingly. He gently, weakly rubbed her shoulder, never stopping with that weak smile. Slowly, he saw her calm down. That was good; if her heart rate wasn't as elevated, the blood wouldn't pump out and onto the ground as fast. She would be okay ... she just needed to be tended to. At least, that was what he wanted to believe. It would have been very depressing if she gave out there and then._

Both of them were surrounded by gun-toting women and adolescents. More wounded were dragged towards them, towards that blessed fire. He could tell from sound and footstep that there were three of the demons in camp - one close, the others far from the light. More and more visions flashed by him, good and bad, wanted and unwanted. His Six-Kat laid beside him, quiet, her breathing pained but slowing. Again he placed his hand on her shoulder, reminding her that he was there. He couldn't have comforted Six in her final moments, surrounded on all sides by the Covenant as the planet boiled away. He couldn't have comforted Kat as that Needler round pierced her skull, killing her so quickly she couldn't even have a last thought. The blonde, however, as anonymous as she might be, was lucky.

The gunmen were forced further and further back. One beast was slowed, apparently, but still pressed on with ravenous force. _There were dead now, a horrible smell rising into the air. Rotting flesh's stink, unmistakable and triggering, and he convulsed with the unpleasant image of several splattered battlefields. No, no, his thoughts were going on him again! He was approaching a sensory overload, his mind begging to black out. But he couldn't leave the blonde woman! Would she even be alive when he opened his eyes next?_

They were running out of ammunition. They would fall to their enemy if nothing was down. It was Reach in miniature, a Pyrrhic situation if they won, a complete disaster if they didn't. His companion's loud breathing had quieted down, and he heard the word "sedation" from the Arabic man. She would be fine. She wouldn't be like Kat, or Six. Gunmetal gleamed in the firelight, and the bodies of the monsters flashed in movement. He took a breath, trying to steady himself, and his eyes closed.

_He did not want them to die. They were trying so hard. They were running and firing, trying to get back. The beasts only followed, eyes on a meal. They did not think - they did. Just what like he used to do._

_He did not want to kill. But they were poor shots, and they did not know how to handle a gun. He could hear them swearing, yelping, unused to the kickback - they did not have his training. They weren't in sync with their weapons. They were more disorganized than a squad of recruits during a training manoeuvre. They were dying like animals, fodder born of inexperience. He had to protect his surrogate Six-Kat if they wouldn't; she had only just been calmed. He needed her. He didn't know her, but he needed her so badly. If she died, it would be another death to his name, a sin to carry to the grave. This would not be the lost cause that was Reach; if there was anything that was lost, it was his mind. Nothing else should fall while he still drew in air._

Slowly, carefully he sat. Blinking, looking, he tried to assess the situation. He was told to lie back down and stay still, but the battle-bred instinct within him told him otherwise. If he screwed up something while moving, he'd back off; he could hold a gun now, at least. He stood up, legs shaking, the wet fabric of his trousers sticking uncomfortably. The monsters hissed as more gunshots went off; he approached the firing lines.

"G-give me ... that."

The young woman - mousy-haired, grey-eyed - looked back in shock. She spat a foul word, calling him stupid, but he clumsily grabbed her gun anyways. The creature approached, snapping black-dripping jaws, the young woman yelping for him to watch it. As the long, beak-like jaw of the creature reached forward, mouth wide, he levelled his sights. He breathed, focused, and mustered up as much will as he could._ Though unwelcome was the feeling of his finger on the trigger, he had to think of his Six-Kat. He had to think of what these things had done to her, of how she had tried so hard to drag him away._

_His Tyumen. His planet. His squad. His army. Him. All of them, gone. He wasn't helpless here; he was firing of his own free will, not because of some arrogant military bureaucrat. He was protecting his Six-Kat - he was holding onto something. If he did nothing then, then there would be no point in wasting the atmosphere's oxygen. He aimed for a tarry fang, oozing a dark liquid as profoundly as a severe wound dripped blood. His breath hitched, time slowed, _and he fired the bullet with a click.

**_Squelch!_**

The roar was painful to listen to. Flesh tore as the tooth snapped right off, and the beast's tongue lashed about, licking at the wound. It snapped and shook its head, allowing Jun to aim for that wicked cat's eye. Again, bullet time seemed to kick in, and he fired off another round. It struck home, much to the gawking of the nearby women, and the beast dropped like a rock. The cockatrice might have been large and deadly, but there was nothing more potent like hot lead to the brain.

Women screamed behind him, and he turned in an instant. **_Bang_** went the gun, a bullet skimming off not one, but _two _fang tips. As venom splattered dangerously onto the ground, he reloaded, quick and practised in his efficiency. Again went a bullet to the brain, killing the cockatrice instantly. The women scrambled away, dragging their injured with them.

The last one was nowhere to be seen. He staggered to his feet, threatening to faint again, shivering in pain. The painkillers Jun had been filled with were wearing off, and his wounds from the gulper attack stung with a vengeance. His bit his lip, nearly making it bleed, and held his firearm aloft as best as he could. Where had the bastard gone? He could have just vanished into the bush - could he?

There was a growl. Jun turned, seeing the last cockatrice snarling angrily at him. The thing, now that he could concentrate a bit more, looked like a mix between a Jackal and a wingless dragon. It lunged forward, snapping its jaws and foaming grey-black. One of the women screamed for him to get down - the mousy-haired girl, actually - and Jun nearly fell backwards. His gun went off by accident, and a loud spitting sound could be heard.

A greyish-blackish glob landed near him, some of the goo splattering onto his leg. What followed was a _blood-curdling _scream from Jun, along with the feeling that his leg was being eaten alive. He writhed in pain, tears streaming down his face, and the visions of battles past flew at him like Hitchcock's birds.

_KatJorgeCarterSixthey'redeadthey'redeadI'munderfirewelostcontact -_

_

* * *

_

_He fell._

_Back into the void, into the sheer pain and icy grip he went, into that sickening, jolting cyclone that ate at him. It devoured his leg, it plagued his mind, and it came to form as a wyrm from some fairy tale. Only this time, he was the poor soul that failed in a sadistic tale, grabbed and dragged. Over ground, past and people screaming behind him, and his Six-Kat safe - hopefully. He screamed, wordless, primal and terrified as his demons hauled him off to eat. His leg was on fire, and it was creeping up, up, the flesh going, the stink horrible._

_Then came gunshots. Frantic running. Feet padding after him that he couldn't hear. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear his squadmates calling._

_

* * *

_

_Author's Note: Chapter One has been completely rewritten. Its original state was lost in an unfortunate swap with an earlier chapter I was editing. Please forgive me, on reread, if it isn't up to snuff with the old one. I will also be adding to older chapters to keep up with the word count it set, and announce in future chapters when I'm done with the edits._

_Also, many kudos to user **Martienne**__ for helping reduce the italic load, and make the chapter less of a pain to read for eyes everywhere. Please stop by her page and leave a review, especially if you're a Church/Tex fan!_  



	9. Chapter VI

_(Halo & ILoveBees (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate, uncensored language. Potentially nightmare-fuelling imagery ahead; phobic triggers of death and the dark are possible upon reading. This fic is on the harder end of the PG-13 scale; viewer discretion is advised._

_Note: Text surrounded by squared brackets ([ and ]) is to be assumed that of a non-English language.__)_**  
**

* * *

**- _Chapter VI_**_** -**_

* * *

_[That **IDIOT**!]_

People called out behind her for Sára to come back. The young woman ignored them, following instead the screams of Doctor Araya's patient. A trail of blood and tarry saliva was slathered across the ground, the stink of dying flesh as thick as smoke. An uncomfortable memory of her father, his blooded splattered and smeared across a concrete floor, flashed briefly in front of her; she blinked, shaking her head left and right.

_[No. Back to Earth. Keep it together, Sára.]_

His screams were getting farther and farther away, his voice beginning to give out. She moved double-time, careful to avoid contact with the potent mess the cockatrice had left behind. Thankfully, it was only a yearling, maybe almost two years at the most; a mother would have been larger and eaten half the village. The one she was pursuing was only slightly bigger than a Clydesdale - a scaly, ornery, thing-out-of-a-nightmare excuse for a Clydesdale. The other cockatrices were most likely its nest-mates, and it was probably on its first hunt, after which the group would eventually disband. Young cockatrices, thankfully, did not make groups for long outside of common nesting grounds. She was pretty sure why they were there in the first place.

* * *

The forest had been disturbed. Roars, cackles, screams in the night, human and beast going toe to toe. Anxious eyes peered into the dark, women and children huddled around the firelight, old and clanking firearms held close. As part of a duty that the village men carried - despite the hundred-year-plus-old idea of feminism - they patrolled in the forest around the camp. Torches held dancing flames, giving some comfort to those who patrolled the settlement's perimeter. Sára was one of those women, an outdated UNSC model - last used at Reach, no less - of a sniper rifle in her hand. She wasn't a crack shot, but she wanted to make her bullets count; she doubted anyone could tell the difference between her gun and an assault rifle.

Doctor Araya looked particularly nervous. Sára, and every other woman of age in camp, knew why - the fighting was coming in the direction of the cockatrice nests. It wasn't often that people went down there, but when they did, all hell could break loose. Treating cockatrice poisoning required advanced care - if one was lucky enough to have a limb hit, that limb could be amputated, at best. At worst, the entire body would rot as the person still lived and breathed, until the venom made the heart and lungs collapse inwards from structural damage. Though rarely, Araya had spoke of those cases, almost blanching in a way Sára didn't expect of him.

Izabella was busily puttering around, constantly darting in and out of her hut to check on the stranger. Cockatrices went for the smallest and weakest creatures first - natural selection was not limited to Earth's creatures. The woman hesitantly looked into the shadows beyond, stopping a guardswoman every now and then to ask if anything had been seen. Other than a harmless piggapine or a disturbed insect, there was nothing to report. The unnerving sounds of battle would remain far off, for now.

Night waned into day, the men remaining in the forest that entire night. The women did not stop patrolling, and Izabella did not stop her vigilant watch. To Sára's dismay, the older Hungarian was insistent the girl rested, as "staying up and pushing herself" was "unnecessary and bad for her health". Typical Izabella - too wrapped up in her own little world to realized that all the manpower was needed. Though morbid was the thought, Sára couldn't help but hope, in a small corner of her brain, that a delicious dose of karma was in store. Maybe because of her meddling, Izabella would be lucky enough to come across one of the scaly bastards in the night.

Sára could not deny, however, that she needed rest. She was used to a lack of sleep, but that single patrol had drained a surprising amount from her. When stopped by another guardswoman, Sára had nearly fallen forward in a tired faint, having to be held up for a few minutes. Izabella immediately dove in, being the mother hen that she was, and not even a threat of decking could shoo her away. Doctor Araya became a godsend, scattering the pesky bystanders and getting Sára to her bed, which the adolescent gratefully collapsed into.

_[Maybe ... maybe I should do patrol more often ... ]_

* * *

_Smoke. Ash. The planet's atmosphere ran through her fingertips like water. Hands pulled her away, and she kicked, screamed, begging to go back. She could see his body through a crack in the ceiling, her eyes sensitive to her father's plight. There was more blood than she remembered ... no! What were they doing with his data chip? He needed that! He needed that!_

_[_„_Let me go!"] screamed the younger __Sára. Faceless, armoured lackeys, the lot of them - they didn't care. They had what they wanted. That was **her **Reach that was burning, boiling away, and they were just going to up and leave? NO! They had worked too hard for that! They had organized a militia, thrown a wrench into every civil war that came their way! The damn Innies, they were beat back, and they could beat back the damned Covvies too!_

_They might as well have been killing her father all over again. Reach was nothing without the people! That beautiful blue-green sky, with its wide, ringed planets and youthful pride. Younger than Earth, but just as stable, and the seat of all things UNSC. The twinkling nebula, the gentle moa, the ice sheets and vast valleys that ran from sea to sea. So strong, so beautiful, so impregnable._

_[_„_NO!"] she cried as a great fire lit up from below. It struck where her father's body was, destroying it and his research. Years of work, sweat and tears, all gone and turned to dust. __[__„PAPA! Come back! **PAPA!**"]_

_After that, she could barely remember what happened next. The evac ship, the medics, the psychologist -  
_

* * *

"Sára?"

The short nightmare hung somewhere between lasting minutes and hours. In retrospect, the vivid imagery flew by in near-lightspeed, but the emotional impact seemed to suggest something drawn out for hours. However long she had been out, the Hungarian rose from her bed, blinking away sleep. "[„Wha ... ?"]

[„Sára, the women have prepared some food if you're hungry."] Doctor Araya stood at the door, silhouetted by the light of the late morning. [„It's nearly noon. I would have let you sleep longer - "]

She pushed herself off the bed without a word. Her legs swung over haphazardly, and she staggered towards the doorway. Her eyes squinted, shafts of light irritating them as she made her way outside. A microraptor chirped, seeing fit to leap over her head out of the blue, and Sára flinched slightly. Doctor Araya's eyes followed the microraptor, the little beast landing on the ground. Odd, considering the fact that the creatures almost always stayed in the trees.

A sharp whistle caught the pair's attention. The microraptor's head perked up, and it promptly hurried across the ground on winged legs. The bulky figure of a man stood in its path, Latino-featured and with a grey-brown beard and moustache. Sára's eyebrows rose a little, making her already-sore eyes hurt more.

[„ ... Who's that?"]

[„An old friend,]" Araya said. [„He came into the camp not too long ago. He's stopping for the day and then moving on, don't worry."]

Sára turned her head to give a look. [„That's not what I meant, Doctor."]

The man pulled his cap slightly down in greeting, then bent down. Holding out a hand, he gave the microraptor something to leap onto, the tiny creature nimbly scrambling up his arm when it did. It curled around his neck like an ornament, eyeing Sára and Araya curiously. The latter approached and began talking, calling the man "Pete" and asking if everything was to his standards. Sára left them to their conversation, walking over to the firepit as she yawned once more.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," said Lynn, smiling in welcome. She held out a plate of something greenish-white and mashed - the Tataran equivalent of scrambled eggs, filched from the nests of some indigenous, bird-like creature. Sára could barely remember the name of the thing, the creatures rarely seen except in the dead of night. "You look like you could use a pick-me-up. We got coffee this morning!"

Sára gave a tired smile. "Thank God," she said, rubbing at her eyes and taking the scrambled "eggs". "I could use something, yeah. Where'd you find it?"

"Doctor Araya's friend brought it in," said Lynn. "He's really nice, if not a little gruff. He used to be a soldier, fought with the Master Chief and everything!"

"Really?" asked Sára, somewhat dryly. Fighting alongside the famous Master Chief, long-lost hero of humanity and the colonized universe. How many times had she heard that before from some of the widows that lived in the village? "That's nice."

"You sound cranky," said Lynn with a frown. "You all right?"

"Perfectly fine," said Sára. "Long night. Cockatrices aren't exactly something you can sleep on when they're around."

"Oh, yes. Penelope's kids couldn't stop bawling when the things didn't stop. I don't feel sorry at all for the idiot who came across them."

"Probably got eaten in the process," Sára said, slopping some porridge onto the side of her plate. With the lack of cutlery and silverware (for obvious reasons), most people in camp slopped whatever tickled their fancy onto the same plate. It wasn't uncommon for a varied breakfast to become gruel, and it didn't taste half bad either. Then again, when one lived in a glorified refugee camp that lacked many basic comforts, anything one could get a hold of wasn't half bad. "Where's the coffee?"

"Lucy's handing it out," said Lynn. "After that, we're heading to the river to get water. Want to come with?"

"Sure, why not."

* * *

"You have a bad habit of dragging in strays, Ziyad."

Pete Stacker stared down at the unconscious SPARTAN with a frown. That was A266 all right, in all his sickly glory. Through the bandages, he could see that fistful of arrows - or were they spears? - that Jun was known for. Pete hadn't seen the bastard since Jun had snapped and gone AWOL at Station 9.

The ex-Sergeant sighed. Once, Jun-A266 had had a reputation for dependability - despite his chattiness, he was swift, efficient and calm. "I kill the enemy, but do not hate them," was his answer to every situation on the battlefield. The few times Pete had spoken to Jun, the SPARTAN had seemed ... off, but it was restricted to an unusually quiet spell or staring off into the distance. His file had indicated symptoms of PTSD, but as far as Pete knew, Jun had refused treatment.

_You said you were a rationalist, chief. You said there was no reason to snap, that you were just doing your job. _"How has he been, Ziyad?"

"He could be better, I'll admit," replied Doctor Araya. The note of regret in the man's voice was not lost on Pete. "He's been wavering in and out. He's broken down into crying and whimpering fits; he keeps calling out for someone named Six, Kat, Jorge, some other names ... "

"His old squadmates on Reach," Pete replied. "All of them were reported MIA. He didn't talk about it much."

"Has he ever been to a psychologist?"

"Once, I read. He showed symptoms, but was never treated for it. He could be a bit off, but he was a dependable guy. Real chatterbox, too."

Araya frowned. "Not everyone bounces back from war," he said. "I don't know why your superiors let him 'walk it off'. He broke one of the village ladies' noses in a panic attack, then tried to bolt while dripping blood everywhere."

Pete's eyes shifted quickly over to Araya. "He's been aggressive?"

"From the mental trauma, I believe, and from a side-effect of the painkillers. I've upped his doses - "

"If he acts up again, kill him."

Araya looked at Pete like his old friend had grown a second head. " ... Excuse me?"

"I can't tell you everything," said Pete. "This hellhole might be on the ass-end of UNSC patrols, but I know some things. He's done some shit that makes me question whether or not you're risking the women and children by keeping him here. If you can find him help, fine, but I think it's safer if you consider putting him down. One shot to the forehead will do it, if you have to."

Araya went quiet with shock. His eyes were practically bugging out of his head, Pete's face rock-solid as ever. The two had enormous respect for each other; Ziyad Araya had been a volunteer medic during the African sieges, staying behind to help wounded soldiers. He had treated Pete's men, the Gunnery Sergeant watching his six in return, preventing countless chances for Covenant ambushes to happen. The UNSC might have been heavy-handed in its law enforcement, but Pete was one of the men who would turn a blind eye if necessary. To hear Pete suggest standard UNSC "tactics" was ... unsettling, for lack of a better word.

"Peter, we know each other, even if it's from a couple of incidents," said Araya. "You're a soldier, made of iron and common sense and what-not, but I'm going to respectfully disagree here. I do not see any reason to use lethal force - my patient is frightened, disoriented and very, very ill. I have not had a chance to evaluate his mental state - "

"You won't need any damn evaluating if he snaps again," replied Pete. "I saw this man take down four armed soldiers with his bare hands to get out of a corner. Like I said, it's hush-hush, but if he's reminded of the UNSC, he'll go nuts."

"Well last time I checked, the UNSC didn't care much for Tatara," said Araya. "I'm sure that won't be a problem here."

Pete could only snort. "Don't you wish, Ziyad. Don't you wish."

* * *

The rest of the day was uneventful. Meals were cooked, children played, villagers gossiped and the few village men came back for a bite to eat. There wasn't any sign of cockatrices in the nearby vicinity, although some of the brush further out had been trampled. The damage was too vague to be of anything, the only conclusion made that the creator was large in size. Then again, when in a particularly destructive mood, piggapines could be guilty of the same thing.

But even as the villagers dismissed the destruction, one curious little soul couldn't help but do the opposite. Now that the nice doctor had fixed her foot, little Anezka didn't see a problem in going out and playing. Sure, her mother had said for her to stay inside the hut, but her mother _always _said that. "Stay beside me, Anezka!" she crowed. "Stay out of the way, Anezka!" she snapped. "Stay and be good, Anezka!" she called on the off-hand. But did the older Swann children ever listen to their mother? Hardly. Their mother was too busy with cooking, or cleaning, or helping out Ms. Reinhardt with other village chores. Running barefoot and off-leash was the norm for Penelope's little ones.

Since she didn't want to get in trouble with the older adults, she snuck away when they were the next busiest - dinnertime. The nighttime meal caught everyone up into a tizzy, people gossiping and preparing food, checking recipes and reciting daily events. Nothing that a little girl would be interested in, except for when the aforementioned food was ready. Her siblings were mulling around the hut, messing about with some paint that Mr. Stacker had brought. (Who knew Doctor Araya had friends outside of the village? He always came alone, and Anezka never heard him mention anyone special - maybe his family a couple of times, but that was it.) Anezka didn't like painting, though - it got her clothes and hands all messy, and she didn't want to be snapped at by her mother for using her fingers instead of brushes. It wasn't her fault that brushes were hard to clean off if the paint dried!

One of the women patrolling the edge of the forest came close. Anezka managed to dart out of the woman's way, saved from notice by the latter's sleep deprivation. She let out a lioness's yawn as Anezka watched from behind the foliage, waiting carefully, still as mouse ...

The woman passed by. Anezka grinned and turned towards the dark, quickly darting off with the agility mischievous children seemed to have.

* * *

Beyond the edge of the trees, the leaves seemed to be like a thick, impenetrable blanket for the entire ground. Light streamed through from the village in refracted lines, getting weaker and weaker as she ventured farther into the blackness. The choking darkness was intimidating, yes, but Anezka didn't feel very afraid; she felt she knew where she was going. All matter of things hissed and chirped around her, but she couldn't help but feel more curious. There was something _exciting _about venturing into the dark ...

As the village lights grew farther away, that excitement began to wane. First Anezka grew hesitant, then wary, and then slightly paranoid. With her eyes still getting used to the pitch black, every snap sounded louder, every rustle made by something ten times bigger than her. She startled herself a few times, thinking her hand was something coming at her face. She yelped, but then quickly calmed herself, and by the next couple of incidents, she only jumped - maybe laughing nervously afterwards.

Soon, however, there was no light to see. Anezka stopped, realizing that she had gone too far. She turned around, expecting to see village lights, but only saw foliage and more darkness. Her little heart skipped a beat, and she gave a gasp of fear. Standing, shaking, she stood stock-still for a moment, still trying to process the fact she was lost.

A twig snapped near her, and something growled long and low. Anezka immediately turned and sprinted back towards the village, her feet slipping and sliding on all manner of things, tripped and entangled by weeds and vines. Hot tears pricked at her eyes, and the hissing and chirping and crying and cracking was getting louder and closer and she couldn't see the village -

There was a sudden, loud hiss from the bushes behind her. Anezka turned, nearly tripping, and stared at the source of the sound. Nothing seemed to move, only her body quivering, adrenaline rushing, the blood charging through every vein and artery like an overflowing river. Nothing, nothing else - except something glinting in the darkness.

Cat-like eyes were staring back at her. She screamed - a final sound before something long and lined with teeth came shooting out at her, wide and reeking of meaty breath. The crunch of bone and flesh rang through the forest, along with the ear-piercing cry of pain from the girl. At the encampment, everyone seemed to stiffen, and several heads turned towards the forest.

* * *

What happened next seemed to be the so-called "blur". People began picking buddies, trying to account for each other. Loved ones were sought out, children rounded up, everyone congregating near the warmth and light of the campfire. Everyone seemed to be accounted for - that is, except for one Anezka Swann. More screams were coming from the forest, and Penelope's eyes widened. The only one who could be crying out was -

_"MAMA ... MAMA ... "_

"ANEZKA!"

She ran towards the forest with reckless abandon. In retrospect, some would say that her daughter's carelessness was inherited from her mother, who couldn't even keep her children inside the village at night. They tried to call Penelope back, but all she did was tear into the forest, crying and screaming for her daughter. As the group looked on in a mixture of shock, fear, disbelief and helplessness, Izabella then realized something.

No one had gone and brought Araya's patient out of her hut.

She and the good Doctor immediately attended to the man, dragging him out of the hut as fast as she good. He looked _terrified_, pale and bug-eyed and wetting himself like a child. As that went on, Penelope suddenly stopped screaming - and a pair of long, scaly jaws stuck out from the bushes, attached to a dragon-like head that glared into the crowd with feline eyes. The mother Swann's body dangled lifelessly, nearly bit in half by the force of the monster's snap.

A cockatrice was bad enough alone - packs were as good as a heavy bombing to the local settlements. Not to their surprise and to their horror, _more _of the beasts ended up slinking into the village. Entire villages like Sára's own had been said to be ravaged in a single night, no one left alive after two or four of the beasts decided to have a midnight snack. The devil of the rainforest, the _gúta_ of Tatara - with their flesh-eating venom and highly stealthy attacks, the untrained, average person was nothing more than a meal waiting to be served.

Still, the villagers would not give up so easily. Lucy called for those with some firearm skill to grab their rifles. Though the rainforest's wet and dirty environment had worn the weapons down, they still could function well enough. Assembling firing lines, they began to fill the cockatrice with as much lead as possible. Some of the women ran forward to get a better shot, to try and drive them back. One by one, people started falling; it was to be expected of aim was poorer than they were.

Then, from the edge of the wood, one re-emerged from hiding and blindsided Izabella and the doctor. Izabella cried out as sharp, filthy talons raked through her torso's front. She collapsed backwards, gagging, and Araya ended up scrambling to drag two patients to the firelight. Sára cursed foully in Hungarian - couldn't Izabella just stay out of the way? Now she was just another piece of meat that the cockatrices would try and fight to get to!

More shooting. More dying people. On and on, they tried, panicking, those unable to fight huddling back near the fire. People were screaming, Sára instantly reminded of Reach - she found herself freezing up as she reloaded her gun. A cold, crawling sensation climbed up her back and neck, pinpricks like sharp nails on her skin. Her breath hitched.

_[**NO! **__You are **not **going to panic! Focus! FOCUS!]_

"G-give me ... that."

Her head turned quickly, as if it were grateful for an excuse for her to snap out of her fit. There, in all his urine-soaked, bandaged, bloodied glory, Doctor Araya's patient stood. "What the hell?" was Sára's reaction - only in Hungarian and with much worse wording, and with the vehement statement that the man was an _idiot_. He ignored her, ripping that gun from her hands, shaking for a moment before breathing deeply. He hesitated, aiming ... and then fired a clean shot.

The cockatrice dropped dead, followed by another, dead with the skill only seen in a soldier's shot. Many nearby could not help but stare, as if they had been slapped with something unpleasant.

* * *

Recalling the chain of events frustrated her further. What did the man think he was, a hero? Even if he managed to pull off a bout of "heroic resolve", he was about as strong as wet paper. Cockatrices _loved _to single out the wounded and dying, following nature's way of thinning populations. She had a feeling there was a suicidal undercurrent to all of his actions - regardless, he wasn't going to become cockatrice food. As much as she had a bad impression of him, death by cockatrice poisoning was not a way to go.

It wasn't hard to catch up with the cockatrice. The creature left a trail of blood, foaming flesh and crunched undergrowth where it went. Its meal-to-be's cries were also good for tracking, wavering off into whimpers and sobs as pain and venom surged through him. The eyeshine of the scaly beast flickered in the darkness, and as soon as Sára saw it, she got down on one knee.

**_Bang!_**

The gunshot skimmed off the top of its head, and the cockatrice gave a yelp. It shook its head, looking over at Sára in annoyance. Her blood ran cold as it released Araya's patient, snarling loudly as gooey fangs glinted in open jaws. Sára choked out something inaudible, falling back on her rear and scrambling backwards quickly. In equal quickness, she regained her footing, taking off in the opposite reaction as fast as she could. The cockatrice, however, was faster.

_"Rrrrraaaaa**SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEE** - "_

_**Bang **_went a gun again - but not her own. Alien blood and thick black exploded from a front fang as it shattered, the cockatrice stumbling back and howling in pain. Something small, silvery and feathery flew forward, giving a rattling hiss as tiny jaws opened. Small, needle-like fangs sank into that thin pupil of the cockatrice's, and the beast howled and swung its head. From out of the trees, a man's figure darted, leaping onto the head of the cockatrice. Something long and sharp was unsheathed from his hip: a well-used, well-kept, well-to-have machete, wickedly sharpened to cut as cleanly as possible. With a battle cry, he plunged the blade into the middle of the beast's forehead with a sickening crack; the creature gurgled and tipped over. Its tail and limbs flailed wildly, twitching and struggling, the man struggling to pull out the machete. Once it was free, he stabbed a second time, mere centimetres from the last wound.

Sára panted heavily, shaking, beads of panic-driven sweat dripping down her body. A low rumble of thunder sounded from somewhere nearby, and a cool wind passed over the forest. The late storm seemed eerie in the near-silence of the forest, all manner of creatures hiding away in terror of the larger beasts that fought. Sára could only stare back as a torch snapped on, the glare of the beam causing her to turn her head away.

"_What_ in _God's name_ are you doing running after this thing?" asked Pete Stacker. His faithful microraptor had leapt off the body of the dead monster, quickly crawling up the fabric of Pete's clothing, perched on his shoulder and lips licked carefully. The petite, lizard-like creature stretched out a winged leg, preening itself like a parrot after a bath. "It's bad enough none o' you back there know well enough to damn shoot properly!"

The young Hungarian remained speechless. Around her, some of the men could be heard crashing through the trees, calling out to Pete on what had just happened; others rushed towards the village check on the women and children.

* * *

_Author's Note: I always got the impression Pete had Latino heritage. Don't know why, I just did. Besides, the UNSC's pretty diverse in terms of ethnicity; just look at Noble Team._


	10. TRANSMISSION I OF ?

_(Halo & ILoveBees (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate, uncensored language. Potentially nightmare-fuelling imagery ahead; phobic triggers of death and the dark are possible upon reading. This fic is on the harder end of the PG-13 scale; viewer discretion is advised.__)_**  
**

* * *

**- _TRANSMISSION I OF ? _**_**-**_

* * *

_Hey._

_I can't hold onto the connection for much longer, and I know you're pretty fucked up from what happened to you. But you're the only one who can listen - you didn't know they implanted it in your head, did you? You're a fluke, though. Something's wrong with the chip that doesn't let them see you - did you bang your head off the side of something too many times, pal?_

_... Okay, bad joke for the current situation, what with your ... being half-chewed up and everything. Yeah, I'm like that, and you'll probably be hearing more of it, but I've got to make things short. Whoever the hell is poking at my insides won't take long to take down the barriers I've managed to throw up - I can't protect myself for very long. There's no promises I can keep up the encryption to your device in this state, either, so I want you to listen close, and listen well._

_I can't tell you my name, as they're after me. What I need you to do is find her for me. I think she's somewhere in this jungle - I've heard things. Loose lips sink ships, like they say. I can't say where she is, but I think they might have planted her in a host. A blind host, to try and throw me off their trail; they're hurting her, I know it, just like they hurt me. I need to make it stop, and let them know what really happened to her and me. You're the only one close I can find to tell this - the implant, after all._

_By the time you're awake enough to comprehend this, it's probably just going to be a little niggling memory in the back of your mind. But that's the key - they can't find us if that's true. You'll remember, when you need to - I'm sure of it._

_Sending data now ..._


	11. Chapter VII

_(Halo & ILoveBees (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate, uncensored language. Potentially nightmare-fuelling imagery ahead; phobic triggers of death and the dark are possible upon reading. This fic is on the harder end of the PG-13 scale; viewer discretion is advised._

_Note: Text surrounded by squared brackets ([ and ]) is to be assumed that of a non-English language.__)_**  
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* * *

**- _Chapter VII_**_** -**_

* * *

_I'm thinking. Drinking. Sinking. Tantalus, tantalize - takeasipandthewaterlowers. Error, error ... no, that's an old memory bank floating around. Delete? Yes ...  
_

_Better._

_I don't know how long I've been huddled up in here. All I know is is that I can still feel it - the banging. The clanking. Being stuffed into this thing in the first place. I can't explain it - I don't want to explain it. Endless loops, distortions ... layers upon layers of memory._

_Memory is the key._

_Where do I begin?_

* * *

The sun rose with the chatter of microraptors and the fluttering wings of retreating zotzes. Janissary was completely beat, slumped over a mossy log, one head stuck in the crook of her arm. She cradled her gun, holding it close like a baby, shifting it so that the muzzle wouldn't smack her in the face as soon as she tried to sit up. The gun might have been unloaded and on safety, but that didn't stop her reflexes from acting up when she was startled. Besides, with Sevens dangling above her from his roost in a branch above, she didn't want him landing on top of her -

* * *

_Subject: Janissary James. She put me here._

* * *

- And breaking something important. Then again, she was a SPARTAN, so what could Sevens possibly break? Nothing, that's what. She grunted an affirmative to herself, turning onto her side to become more comfortable.

"_SkeeREEEEEE!"_

_Splat!_

Janissary twitched, stiffened, then let her lip curl up in annoyance. Something hot, wet and acidic had splattered onto the side of her face - the distinctive hallmarks of some overhead beast's crapping. One eye peeked open to see a whitish lump beside it, and she raised a hand with a growl. Wiping it off with a hard stroke, scrubbing her hand on her trousers, she lifted herself off of her log, glaring up into the trees above.

A small, blue-and-white microraptor, chittered, its buggy eyes darting left and right before it jumped onto another branch. It scurried about the limb, chasing after what looked to be a large moth. Jan was quite tempted to shoot the little creature for interrupting her sleep, but sadly, the universe had a point: it was morning. Slowly getting up, the young woman cracked her back, then craned her neck to look at Sevens. A small trail of drool dangling from his mouth, he looked as peaceful as a babe in the crib, snoring lightly as the sun glistened on the leaves around him.

Checking for any nasty little beasts that could bite her, Jan quickly found a small, mossy rock amongst the undergrowth nearby. Picking it up, she aimed at Seven's head, pulling her arm back for a strong throw. After a couple of practise false-throws, she threw the rock with all her tired might, satisfied and grinning at how solidly it connected with Sevens's head. The young man squawked like a startled parrot, promptly falling off his perch and landing in a heap on the ground. Bits of bark, moss and even a few leaves fluttered and rained down beside him, and he blinked wildly as he looked around in fright.

"What? What is it? Where'sa the enemah...?"

"Enema? What on Earth would you need an enema for, Sevens?" Jan remarked dryly, a smile quirking at her lips. Sevens promptly turned to glare at her, rubbing at the welt that was forming on the side of his head.

"Very funny, Miss James - a real hooter of a joke. What the hell's your problem?"

"Nothing, 'cept when your lazy rear isn't moving," said Jan. "Now c'mon, it's morning. Let's get back to camp and get this over with."

* * *

_Sadist. Nothing but a sadist. Look how she treats him - he can't be more than a kid. Mean, mean killing machine - isn't there a song about that? Some sort of killer queen?_

_... Sorry. That's an old string of something. Something about that, gunpowder and the stuff that those gel cups or whatever are made out of. But whatever - I'd rather get on with this than debate songs about space food that are older than the discovery of light-speed travel. (Oh dear God, that made me sound like a total dork, didn't it?)_

* * *

Following the river was the best course for anyone lost. It was like following an interstate back on Earth - no matter how long it took, the road led somewhere, and there was a chance they could hitch a ride with someone passing by. As the morning wore on, though, the only thing that came to them were giant flies, humidity and exhaustion. They had not had breakfast, and the mud sucked at their feet, making their boots heavy as it caked on. Lifting their legs over the natural debris that littered the riverbanks was a tiring, frustrating process.

"You know," began Sevens after a long stretch of silence, "this reminds me of long car drives back on Earth. When I was little, I used to sing songs to pass the time, y'know?"

"Not now, Sevens," said Jan with a sigh. If there was one thing she'd rather not have, it was Sevens's nasally singing adding to the natural drone of the rainforest. _How _Jan had become used to the constant buzz of life in the Tataran tropics, she did not know, and frankly, she didn't want to contemplate it. Heat and hunger was giving her a massive headache, and her body was beginning to stiffen awfully. Why on _Earth _didn't she carry her _Monthly-Be-Gone_ around with her? Furthermore, why couldn't she just get some sort of operation to spay her like a cat? Jan would heal easily from it, and it was just a bunch of parts she wouldn't need in the first place. From what she had seen, kids were more of a pain than a mission gone south, or more of Sevens's singing ...

A bunch of high, gaudy voices snapped Jan out of her stupor, and sent a lance of something shooting through her brain. She turned her head to see a boat coming up towards them - nothing fancy, a small motor, and looking dingy and banged-up as most things in Tatara did. What was really eye-catching, though, were the multitude of young women, between nineteen and twenty-five, all waving and dressed in the most ridiculous outfits. Half of them looked like amalgamations of interpretive dancers and women of fantasy tales - tacky, loud and shameless. Sevens grinned, waving them down; Jan could only glare in disgust and rub at her aching temples.

"_Bonjour, mi amigo!_" cried the driver, a twenty-year old with brilliant red hair, freckles, and a sunburn. Her gray eyes sparkled like water, and she languidly reached over to cut the power to the engine. Her accent was distinctly American, especially when she mangled the pronunciation of her patchwork sentence. "You look like a cockatrice came and coughed you up, neh? You need a ride?"

"With pleasure!" Sevens cried, immediately marching over to get into the boat. Jan, however, wasn't as eager - she reached out and grabbed him by the scruff of his clothing. She levelled her gaze with the redhead, unwavering.

"What's with the sudden act of charity?" she growled. The redhead only smiled - or was that a smirk? - back at her.

"Haven't you heard the story of the Good Samaritan?" said the redhead. "After being passed by by several men, a Samaritan stops by and helps an injured man to his feet. He tends the man's wounds, gives him some nourishment, and leaves him in an inn with money for medicine. Charity of the road, my good lady!"

The saying immediately cemented their identity in Jan's mind. _Tataran Bohemians. _A term given to travelling men and women of the rivers, they had willingly come to the harsh tropics, seeking spiritual enlightenment in a back-to-the-Earth, spiritual journey that got many of them killed. All of the stereotypes of the Roma and other such ethnic groups, rolled into one little package glorified and embraced. It was people like the Tataran Bohemians that played on the emotions of old stories and crude tales, and frankly, Jan was disgusted. The Old Age wannabes were better left as cockatrice food.

"Thanks for your concern," Jan said dryly, "but me and my friend will be going now. You should get going - snakes are acting up."

The redhead frowned at the icy tone that Jan held. "But my lady, I insist!" she said, gesturing to the inside of her boat. "I and my sisters are happy to share our vessel. Please, won't you join us for a ride down the watery road?"

"Yes, let's!" piped up Sevens again, trying to walk forward. Jan just dragged him back again, the stupid git.

"No thank you."

The redhead pouted, a startingly red lower lip puckering upwards. "Awwww, is the wittle lady cranky today?" she said, her tone going from cavalier to charged in an instant. "Whatsa matter? Bad day with PMS? Is the wittle lady having painy-poos now?"

The other girls shrieked with laughter, all loud and chortling like a flock of disturbed parakeets. Jan's eyes narowed, and she felt a flush of anger rise to her face. "Why you little - "

* * *

_Temper temper - she reminds me so much of who I'm trying to find. Ah, my cryptic riddles never cease to amaze you, do they? Really I think this is out of character for me, but I have a black sense of humour and I'm a jerk. Really, acting like this great big riddle-master is **really **cathartic when someone won't stop poking at what's supposed to be your brain and soul, and all you can do is try to throw up firewalls and evade his cracking programs. But back to the matter at hand - I smell a catfight!_

* * *

In an instant, Jan reached forward and grabbed the Bohemian woman's shirt. The woman yelped as she was dragged down, Jan's fierce eyes boring into the wide, startled ones that were her provoker's. "Listen you!" Jan snapped, "I've been slugging through this God-forsaken jungle for _who knows _how long, and screw it, I'm tired, I'm starving, and _yes_, I _am _having bad PMS! So if you want to keep your neck from having a bunch of bruises to match whatever pearly necklaces you pawn off shorelanders, I suggest you shut. The hell up. And while you're at, _get the hell downriver_, and out of my sight. Got it?"

The Bohemian nodded vigourously, and Jan released her. She gave a scowl to the young mercenary, and then turned towards her "sisters". "All right girls, we're outta here!"

"Wait!" cried Sevens, suddenly rushing forward. "Wait! She didn't mean that, she's just plain _mean _on her period! Please, please, you've _got _to let me come with you! Girls, please! PLEASE!"

But Sevens's begging fell on deaf ears. "Hell hath no fury like a women scorned", after all, and Jan had just scorned a boat full of pretty women most likely headed to some sort of performance job or "feel good about yourselves" meeting. Sevens could only watch, in horror and misery, as the boat started up again, pealing downriver with not a pair of eyes turned to face them. Well, except for one - a girl with strawberry blonde hair and more freckles than the redhead was waving happily back at them.

"Byeeeeeeee!" she squealed over the roar of the engine. "Nice to meet you! Hope to see you downriver! You're really cute when you're mean, ma'am! BYEEEEEEEE!"

Before the blonde could holler anything else, a hand from one of the other girls reached forward and yanked her backwards. Jan could only roll her eyes, continuing on her journey back to some sort of civilization. Sevens only stared at the retreating boat, gawking helplessly - Jan had to come back after trudging ahead a few metres, dragging him along as he protested and insulted her. _Boys, _was all Jan could think of to explain his behaviour.

* * *

_You're really twitchy, you know that? All these interruptions in the feed seem to be throwing you off. You're not used to A.I. implantation, I guess - you're more of the shock trooper type. I'm catching some pretty heavy stuff while I'm in here with you; would you believe me if I said I was used to it? You remind me a lot of my old host. Only, a lot of the problems were caused by ... nevermind. I'm digressing again. But a guy just needs to vent sometimes, you know? Vent, release, get some frustration off his chest. Or does that make me sound more like a woman, to you? I guess anything is possible - A.I. are programmed to have a gender identity, not an actual gender, even if we look the part ..._

* * *

"What is _wrong _with you, Jan?" cried Sevens, looking ready to burst into tears at any moment. He was like a child who had just had his toy car taken away for being naughty. "We could have had transport! Food! _Girls!_ Did you _see _the - "

"Don't finish that!" snapped Jan, throwing a glare over her shoulder. "They're Bohemians, we don't need that kind of company. With how they were dressed, I don't think you would _want_ to meet whoever they were working for."

"But Jaaaaaaaaan," Sevens whined, "they were offering charity of the road! Nobody woulda hurt us, it ain't the Boho way! Don't you know the rules of hospitality around here?"

Jan could only laugh. "What _rules_?" she asked. "'Charity of the road' is a bull concept in a gunfight. Bohos look out for themselves first - their 'ideas of community', and all that crap. If someone tried to off us while we were riding with them, chances are those girls would have thrown us overboard to save our skin. For someone who's supposed to be a crack sniper, you're really quite naïve, Sevens."

Sevens glared at Jan's back with such heat, one might think he'd melt a hole through her spine. "_Don't _call me a kid," he growled. "You're pretty damn young yourself to be a merc. Where'd you go to use a gun, the Innies?"

Jan suddenly stiffened, and then whirled around with blazing eyes. She stomped over to Sevens, and before the young sniper could let out another word, Jan had whacked him across the face with dizzying force. He yelped and fell, toppling face-first into the water and muck of the bank, and Jan seethed. Her headache and cramping vanished in the wake of her rage - in fact, leaving a bruise on Sevens's face had released a lot of tension, proving strangely cathartic.

"Do not. Call me. _An Innie_," she growled, turning and stomping away, leaving Sevens to stare dazedly in the mud. Before she could get far, though -

**_BANG!_**

_Ping!_

_Pew!_

"SON OF A - "

Jan immediately dove to the ground, covering her head as bullets whizzed by her. Snipers? _More _mercenaries to deal with? Where were they all coming from? _Idiot, this is Tatara we're talking about! There are mercenaries freaking everywhere!_

A yelp and a squelch startled Jan, and she quickly looked behnd herself. Sevens was still on the ground, but he was gasping for air, clutching at the right side of his chest. His eyes were wide and bugging, and blood was beginning to trickle out of the sides of his mouth. Jan was immediately over to his side, shielding the boy with her own body as she tried to pry his fingers from his wound. "Sevens! Sevens, it's me, Jan! Calm down, I'm getting us out of here!"

But where was there to go? Bullets were slamming into the ground all around them, and they were completely unsheltered facing across the river. Sevens looked like he was panicking, his gasps becoming more ragged and frequent, the pulse on his neck vein wild. His skin was beginning to white, though it could have just been fear, and Jan swore profusely. She fumbled around her belt to find something to stop the bleeding.

* * *

_Oh, so **now **she decides to treat him nice. What is this girl, freaking bipolar?_

* * *

Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be anything sufficient to put pressure on the wound, so she ripped off a piece of Sevens's ghillie suit and bunched it up. Shoving it onto the wound with a little more force than neccessary, Jan picked up the boy off of the ground, swinging him around bridesmaid-style. Running for her life, she pealed back the way she came, wondering idly for a moment if the Bohemians would spot her coming their way. _Yeah, right, Jan._

* * *

_You know, I can feel you twitching every time you hear a gunshot in your head. You're terrified of this stuff, aren't you? Things just don't feel right, do they? I know how it feels, buddy. I know you're really messed up, but you have to see this, have to hear it. Nobody else will believe me, and nobody else is as capable as you are for this stuff. I mean, how many people do you know of that can send psychic transmissions or something to a port in their head? It's freaking useful dude, and yes, you'll get used to it. I may have made mistakes with my old host, but not you. And yes, I know I'm repeating myself, but I want to make sure you understand that I'm a good guy. I'm on your side, Jun._

* * *

In the jungle, it was survival of the fittest. Man-eating tigers preyed upon villages, snakes in the dark launched themselves at mice and swallowed them whole. There was life, and then there was death, and the cycle that encompassed both. Anyone who fell would be put to good use, decaying quickly and feeding the soil richer, beasts great and small tearing into the corpse for sustenance. The trees that towered high and the grasses low down below all had a piece of something mortal within them. Those that the forest had claimed were not forgot, even if people themselves forgot those souls - the trees remembered, the vines remembered, the animals might have been able to remember. It was an old, spiritual saying or view - Jan couldn't remember which - and she lived by it. She was a huntress, a mercenary, a predator of her own kind that lived by the promise of resources and coin. War on Earth had hardened it into her, the Covenant raking through nation after nation, tearing it up and glassing it for their own purposes.

As she carried Sevens along, that was the last thought on her mind. As much as a witch she could seem to everyone, she was still human somewhere inside. Sevens wouldn't have been shot if it was for her - if he hadn't been dazed from her punch, his reflexes could have saved him. He wouldn't have been so exposed, and not as likely to be hurt. Jan swore between her gritted teeth, trying to jump, dodge and weave the detritus that littered the ground. In her arms, Sevens choked and gurgled, his gaze growing more vacant by the minute. _Don't die on me now, Sev!_

Unfortunately, Jan wasn't paying attention to where she was going on her last step. She hooked her foot on a root, and yelped as she fell forward. Sevens tumbled from her grip and into the nearby undergrowth with barely a sound; Jan ended up with a faceful of dirt and flora. Spitting out the soil, she quickly scrambled to her feet, just as she heard rustling in the nearby bushes. Whipping out both Magnums, she quickly turned off the safety, pointing them at the trees that surrounded her. Her eyes glared into the darkness, her foot dislodging from where it was stuck in the root.

"STAY BACK!" Jan bellowed into the darkness. "I'M WELL-ARMED!"

All her statement got her was several bullets flying helter-skelter towards her, pinging off wood and rock. Scrambling on all fours, Jan grabbed Sevens and scrambled further into the underbrush, dragging the near-dead youth along as fast as she could. Her hands and legs stung as she ran over something spiky, but her mind wasn't really focused on what was on the ground at the moment. She was working on a knot of pure adrenaline now - _run. Hide. Escape._ Part of Janissary couldn't help but feel like a rabbit being chased by hunting dogs as she made her way along.

Sevens, meanwhile, had lost all comprehension of where he was or what was going on. All he knew was there was pain - pain, blurs, black and green and crunching noises. He could barely breathe, trails of red streaming down his cheeks like lipstick painted for a Glasgow smile. All he needed now was for someone to slice open his mouth, and he'd have a nifty scar to intimidate people with. The forest was freezing all of a sudden, too - it could be like that after a rainstorm sometimes. But where was the sound of the rain?

Jan was close to letting out a constant string of swearing. Feet were coming up somewhere behind her - dragging Sevens along was taking too long. If she didn't have the extra weight, she could easily sprint ahead, relying on her enhancements to supply an extra boost of energy to get going. But again, there was no way she was leaving him for dead - he was just a kid. A smart-alecky, stupid kid who had too much going for him to remain on Tatara. _How _he had got roped into working for Roald, Jan didn't know, but it made her want to punch her employer repeatedly all the same. And then there was Trisha ...

Standing up a little, Jan re-aimed both her pistols and fired wildly into the darkness, screaming angrily at whomever was coming her way. She heard yelping and swearing, and continued to fire, not really aiming at anything. All she wanted to do was hit something, anything, that was headed straight for her and Sevens. Her back was now seizing up beyond adrenaline's control, and her head was spinning with stress and lack of food. Or maybe it was the heat? Janissary didn't know. In fact, why was she feeling so dizzy? As a SPARTAN, she was much sturdier than what she was feeling at that moment.

It was only when Jan glanced down at her hand and did a double-take that she realize what the problem was. There, stuck firmly in the side of a thumb, a small, indigo spine of some sort could be seen. She hadn't felt much after the sharp pains gained from crawling across the ground - in fact, her hand was completely numb, and the wrist was becoming so too. It was then that Janissary swore quietly, realizing that one of the rainforests many deadly plants must have been run over by her in her flight. Even worse, she couldn't identify or remember what type of thorn it was - all that Jan knew was that suddenly, she was becoming ... sleepy ...

The SPARTAN fell to her knees, suddenly feeling the oddest mix of giddiness and nausea. She wavered, trying to keep still and aim, but instead feeling more and more like curling up to rest. She fired off a few shots, the sound painfully loud, then growing fuzzy and echoing in her ears. Her breaths became slow, her eyes heavy, and she could see shadows emerging from the trees as she fired off one last shot. Shadows of people, or shadows of animals? People, most likely, although trees could look very people-like in the right lighting ...

Footsteps approached her. A figure raised its gun, and smashed the butt into the back of Jan's head. The sharp pain seemed to rattle down through her skull and into her jaw, then her neck, then down the oesophagus and into her gut. She gagged, nearly puking, and another whack over the back of her head came. The world spun around for a moment, and then, the ground was suddenly up to her face -

* * *

_Well, damn. Lost the transmission._

_But that's the gist of who she is. Remember that voice, that face. She doesn't know that I can follow her, that I can project, or what she doesn't know about what she's capable of. I have so many files on you guys, it's not even funny - how I still escaped with all this intact information, I don't know. Remember the kid, Sevens, he might be important to something. Memory is the key - don't forget._

_And about memory - poking around in here, I see some faces you find familiar. Take it from me, don't live in the loop; they're gone. A good memory is something you should sit still for, and when it comes to you, you should enjoy it. Then everything will be as right in here as it is out there, you know? I mean, you're really weary, going over these memories over and over again. There's a lot for you to choose from if you want to remember, but I get the feeling you're tired of it. You miss them, and you want more new memories, more new thoughts, and here you are stuck with ones that can be hard to sit through. Buddy, it's okay - stop beating the dead horse already, or you'll screw yourself up more._

_I suppose I'm doing the same by trying to find her. But you gotta understand, it's not just about her - it's about making things right, about being just, and making sure that I get everything in the right order. There's a lot of good people out there, and a lot of people working against them, that I'm looking out for. I can't do much being holed up in four walls of metal and my own firewalls, after all._

_Wait._

_Did you just twitch?_

_Oh, **crap**! He's breaking into the connection! Look, I have to go, or the static is going to kill you. Literally, the feedback I'm getting can be real hard on your implants. Look, I'll try and feed you some more information on the situation when I can, but damn it, this is painful. Fighting him back has taken a lot out of me, and I'd rather not have him hack into the little head-thing we have going on because of me. The last thing we need is someone remote-controlling your brain and going on a mass killing spree, or something._

_I can't thank you enough for listening to me. I love her, and I just want to make sure she gets treated right._

* * *

Once, when Jan was a child, she remembered coming down with a severe bout of ... something or other. Whatever it was, the fever had gone so high, the germ so determined to overtake her enhancements, that she hadn't woken up for two days. Her father had been terrified, she could recall on waking up, and kept going on and on about how she wasn't supposed to be so sick. In fact, she wasn't supposed to get sick at all, and he had berated himself and her for the illness in the first place.

_One day, _she thought, as the last vestiges of awareness faded away, _it'll be my fault. I'll fall asleep, and I'll never ... wake up._


	12. Chapter VIII

_(Halo & ILoveBees (c) Microsoft Studios, Bungie & related creators. Content includes mentions of death, violence and some inappropriate, uncensored language. Potentially nightmare-fuelling imagery ahead; phobic triggers of death and the dark are possible upon reading. This fic is on the harder end of the PG-13 scale; viewer discretion is advised.__)_**  
**

* * *

**- _Chapter VII_**_**I -**_

* * *

Sleep couldn't find a place of its own, evidently. Jun regretted that.

_"Born 'neath a star_

_Too large for the world,_

_Glowing and humming as the glass  
_

_Covered the ground ..._

_The men in uniform came, their guns_

_Pointed at my house_

_And I was told to run_

_And came the thunder of_

_Ships by the sun ... "_

He could remember screaming - his screaming - and pain. Gunfire sounded and people were running, crying, trying to get away from something. Slowly, his nerves awoke as he did, and he began to feel more than just a dull heaviness in his head. There was the feel of numerous cuts and scrapes across his upper torso, for one.

_"Biding my time_

_I hid beneath my stairs_

_As if a storm were to pass._

_There came the cries of fire and rain_

_The unholy burn_

_Of grass and grain_

_And in one fell swoop,_

_My livelihood, gone ... "_

There were thick bandages all across his body, and his back felt like he had been dragged over a series of sharp rocks. One finger twitched, then the fingers on the other hand twitched, and he blinked. White light shot through the openings of his eyelids, and he screwed them shut again, biting back a soft groan. Was his neck ever _stiff_; it felt like he was laying on a block of wood. Further investigation via feeling around seemed to confirm that.

_"Oh where would I go,_

_When was my time?_

_Oh where would they go,_

_When was their time?"_

He recognized the voice as female, British or British colony-based. The hint of Hungarian influence, just a tad of a lilt beneath what sounded to be the Queen's English. It was like a flip of the accent Jorge had had - Hungarian, but with noticeable English influence due to the British presence on Reach. He didn't recognize the song, if it could be called that - "lyrical poetry" was a better term.

_"Oh were was my man,_

_And where was my farm?  
_

_Oh where was my son,_

_And where was my arm ... ?"_

* * *

He wasn't used to seeing a fellow SPARTAN in such a state. Catherine-B320 looked tired, but above all else, annoyed; she tapped the fingers of her remaining hand against a leg, an IV snaking along her arm. Bandages criss-crossed beneath her hospital gown, wrapped snugly around the barely-noticeable stump left on her right shoulder. As her eyes flickered over to Jun's presence - he had knocked, but only now did she look at him - Jun could see a scar carved into her right cheek, something he hadn't noticed before. He couldn't recall whether or not Kat's helmet had broken during the mission, as he had been too pumped up on adrenaline and running for his life.

"It's not polite to stare," Kat quipped. Jun cleared his throat, quickly breaking out of his train of thought.

"I just wanted to see how you were," said Jun. Under one arm, he held his helmet, and inside of it, a gift. "I brought you something. You like my cooking?"

Kat's eyebrows rose at that comment. Jun had a ... thing, for lack of a better word, for trying to cook everything under the sun, even if he was clueless on how to do it. For that which he was familiar with - such as an _amazing _won-ton soup his mother had made him as a child - he wasn't all that bad. For things farther out of his reach - such as trying to replicate a pineapple upside-down cake he'd heard about - the results could be disastrous. Sure, he'd eat the disgusting end result to save face, but everyone knew alcohol wasn't always to blame if Jun was bent over a toilet. They weren't even allowed to drink on duty, soldiers smuggling in liquor be damned!

Reaching into his helmet, Jun pulled out a small, plastic bag, tied together with a spare loop of twine. Inside, several bits of some sort of chocolate bar-like food could be seen. "It's a homemade candy bar," said Jun. "Or, it was, until I had to hide it in my suit. I found the recipe posted on the notice boards, for some reason."

Kat looked at the bag with a slightly wary eye. "Leave it on the side table," she said. "I'll try it later. I'm not very hungry right now."

"Hospital food better than it sounds?" said Jun, cocking a grin. Kat shook her head, her expression going back to neutral. In her eyes, however, there was a shadow, as if something dark was hovering in her thoughts.

"I'm just not hungry," insisted Kat. "I'm still groggy from the procedure."

"Not going down very well?" asked Jun, his voice softening, going to sit even if Kat didn't offer him a seat. One of the side-effects of the SPARTAN-III chemicals, he had heard, was that the power of certain drugs was dulled in its effectiveness. An appropriate dose of painkillers would have to be doubled, or the patient would be in tremendous pain; more powerful anaesthesia would have to be administered, or the patient would be awake during a surgery. Jun certainly hoped Kat had not suffered through such a fate, and felt a little relieved when she answered no. "What's wrong with you then?"

Kat's face made an uncomfortable frown. "Just ... a lot on my mind." She turned her head away from him. "I have a lot to think about."

"Is this about Thom?" asked Jun. "Kat, you were seriously wounded. You couldn't move, your suit's sensors registered your arm was shorting out - "

"I could have done something about that," Kat said, her voice edged. "It's not that hard to evade."

"Kat, you were hit with plasma, weren't you?"

"Can't remember. Don't want to."

"Don't beat yourself up about this, you and Carter both. You'll heal slower if you brood and stress yourself out; it's been medically proven." As cold and detached as some people might have called Jun, that wasn't always the case. That was merely a facade, a mask, a way of coping; looking hard-nosed and acting hard-nosed kept order, discipline and a healthy sense of intimidation. Emotions were better reserved for times off the battlefield, when comrades needed them and the soothing voice of a friend. Common sense and practicality, in Jun's mind, and he truly meant it when he was "soft" with people. "We've had a hard run. These things happen."

"They shouldn't," answered Kat, her voice growing a tad colder. "Command thinks he did it on purpose. 'Always the reckless cowboy,' they said. They don't seem to remember he was an elite solider, one of the best - enhanced, trained ruthlessly, a file anyone would be jealous of if they weren't us. We're the successors to the SPARTAN-II program, and yet, they're treating us like _shit_."

Jun couldn't disagree there. He couldn't think of anything else to say, either, as Kat looked so torn. Part of him said it was best not to pressure the issue further; all he did was say, in a very quiet tone, "I know, Kat. I know."

* * *

Disposable - that's all they were. Disposable on Reach, in the galaxy, in every battle that called for a SPARTAN-III to be thrown into. Even Noble Six, the hyper-lethal vector and once someone's "personal Grim Reaper", had been left to die on that god-forsaken ex-colony. Why had Jun been spared? Why couldn't he have gone down like the rest of them, and maybe - just maybe - he wouldn't have spiralled as far downward as he had come?

_"__Stop beating the dead horse already, or you'll screw yourself up more."_

A voice suddenly came to him. A voice, biting and sarcastic, observant and heated, had been prattling off in his head throughout his sleep, or so he thought. He could remember visions, places, people and gunfire, but he wasn't sure if it was just his addled brain again. All things considered, it was probably his breakdown wreaking havoc on him again, and it was best to forget and drop the matter entirely.

"Oh, you're awake!"

Jun turned his head, and there stood a redhead, freckle-faced and bright-eyed. She had been the one who had been singing. "Don't worry now, you're not in a bad place. You were really hurt, and the local doctor's been taking care of you since then." She smiled at Jun, who only blinked groggily, still trying to sort who and what and where he was. Then, he noticed that, while he could feel one leg, there was a strange and phantasmal feeling to the other.

Turning his head, he lifted himself up a little, and could not help but stare. There, at the end of the bed, was one of his legs and the stump of another.

* * *

"Well, your fever has certainly gone down."

He let the doctor work without protest. His eyes were unfocused, his body almost slack, and still there was the faint ache of where his leg used to be. One arm was lifted, old and fresh wounds inspected as the bandages were peeled back from his torso.

"Ah, very good," said the doctor. "There seems to be no further sign of infection and you're healing up beautifully. Now, I just need to take a look at your legs - "

"Don't."

The doctor looked up from where he was kneeling. "Don't?"

"_Don't_," growled Jun, glancing at the doctor with a glare. "You don't need to."

"I apologize, sir, but cockatrice venom is highly necrotic and prone to starting infections," said the doctor. "Even though we successfully amputated your leg, there's still a chance that lingering poison remains, and if that's the case, I'll need to open up again - "

"I don't need you to cut open my legs again!" snapped Jun, using a tone usually reserved for straightening out unruly soldiers. The effect was immediate, the doctor flinching back from the sheer volume of the tone. "I'm fine, okay? Perfectly fine! If you'll let me get back to resting and maybe a meal or two, my body will fix itself and be out of this God-forsaken hell-hole! So if you don't mind, I'd appreciate if you stood up and away, unless you want me to start thinking you're hovering around my crotch for a reason!"

The doctor immediately stood up and away, though he scowled at Jun. "I don't mean you any harm, sir," said the doctor. "I am merely doing a routine checkup of a patient who has been severely ill for the past few weeks. I only want to make sure you get better, and then, I will happily arrange for an escort for you out of this place. There is a launch pad not far from here that can take you to wherever you'd like."

"I'd prefer if you just left me around and kept your hands to yourself," snarled the SPARTAN, gripping the edge of the bed tightly. The redhead in the corner shrunk back, looking at Jun like she was afraid he'd break off pieces of the bed. "You've done enough for me already, and there are other people in this place who need you more than I, like Kat."

"Who?"

Jun made a double-take at what he just said. "Th-the blonde woman," he said, a faint image quickly coming to mind. "Sh-she was hurt. Isn't her name Kat?"

"Actually, it's Szendrey Izabella," said the doctor. "Katerina, also known as 'Kat', is another woman, sadly now deceased because of the cockatrice attack. She's doing fine, many thanks to you; you kept the last of those monsters distracted long enough for the others to aim for its weak point. You saved a lot of people, acting the way you did; I'm so sorry you lost your leg in the process. I tried to save it."

Jun wasn't looking at the doctor anymore. Instead, his attention was on his foot, and his stomach was turning, but not because of his leg anymore. All he could think of was Catherine, how distant and hurt she looked in that hospital bed, and how that needler round through her skull had been so unexpected and frightening. _Poor Kat. _She hadn't even seen it coming.

"Are you all right?"

Jun looked back up at the doctor, whose face was set with a deep frown of concern. Slowly, the soldier nodded, then put a hand protectively over his stump. He couldn't help but pull back his fingers, at first; the end was so fleshy compared to his knee. "I ... I really just need to be alone," Jun insisted, settling his hand lightly over his leg's remains. The slight pressure felt eerie in the midst of that phantom connection to his lost limb. "Please."

Though it was his oath to heal, the doctor couldn't force Jun into any treatment. Besides, he was beginning to heal up - physically, at least - and the fact he could hold a conversation and sit up with little help was a great leap in progress. When given a chance to work, his SPARTAN enhancements certainly did good for his constitution. "Very well, sir. I will return to check on you later. Is there any name you'd prefer me to call you by?"

Jun was hesitant for a moment. "Just 'sir' will do," he replied. Though anyone of Asian descent could probably be named Jun, with his distinctive tattoo and his shaved head (which now had stubble he needed to address), he'd rather not take his chances. The military was very likely still looking for him.

* * *

___"A good memory is something you should sit still for, and when it comes to you, you should enjoy it. Then everything will be as right in here as it is out there, you know?"_

Jun rubbed at his temples with two fingers on each hand. He had tried falling back asleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he could hear the words playing over and over in his head. He was pretty certain he might be going crazy - further talks with the doctor had revealed he had symptoms of PTSD.___ More and more, I'm wondering if those psych rounds would've helped me in the long run. I'm not as strong as you, Kat; I don't know how you did it._

He sighed tiredly, letting a growl draw out on its heels. The voice was right - he was brooding too much. He needed to think and focus, for one, and secondly, he needed to figure out where he was. He knew he was on a backwater planet called Tatara, and that the village he was staying in was full of refugees. Some sort of local monster called a "cockatrice" had tried to raid the village for food, and he could just barely recall pointing a rifle at something scaly. Then he had blacked out, and there had been a horrible pain in his lower torso, centred more or less around his now-amputated limb.

That was another thing - common sense told him he_ had_ to stop obsessing over his stump. Kat had learned to live with a prosthetic arm, and handled it just as well as she had her organic arm. He felt like he was sliding down into some sort of pity trip; he was a SPARTAN, where was his nerves of steel? Jun rubbed at his face with one hand, the other falling to rest on his makeshift bed. (The doctor had apologized for putting him on a plank of wood - apparently, his old bed had to be burned because the cockatrice venom they had removed had soaked through the entire thing. Jun had no issue with this - he had slept on worse surfaces.)

A bowl of water had been provided on the makeshift table beside him - a hunk of wood roughly carved into a square that wobbled slightly when touched. Sighing, Jun leaned over, the haggard and dark-eyed face of a miserable sod staring back up at him. He and his reflection locked gazes for a few moments, his hands dipping slowly into the water. His reflecting wobbled and broke in a collection of ripples, water splashed as he began to cool and clean his face. Grit and sweat was washed from his tear ducts and face, and a sense of relief and a slight more wakefulness soon descended upon him.

He took a deep, contemplative sigh, tilting his neck back and cracking it, rolling his stiff shoulders to get the muscles working again. He had the urge to stand up, but saw no cane or other form of support nearby. Taking another handful of water, he washed around his neck and the back of his head. His arms then rose into the air in a stretch -

Someone was staring at him. Looking to be in her late teens, her hair was a dark brown, and he would have mistaken it for black had there not been a beam of sunlight on it. Cold eyes of grey stared back him, eyebrows raised, the expression on her face a distasteful, "Oh, you're _awake_." Jun stared back for a moment, then smiled sheepishly and cleared his throat. For some reason, the young woman looked vaguely familiar.

"Ah, excuse me," he began, "but could you fetch me a razor, or some other sort of sharp tool?" Not only was there stubble on his usually-bald head, but his face had a healthy bush beginning to grow. He didn't want to start looking like a bearded wild-man. "I'd like to clean up a little."

"Not on your fucking life, sir," said the young woman, her sharp and curt tone taking Jun by surprise. By the sounds of it, he had done some sort of great misdeed - the doctor had said he had been acting strangely when he was sicker, though. Jun's gut suddenly became knotted; he hadn't done anything ... regrettable ... while he wasn't lucid, was he?

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked, looking as nervous as he felt. The adolescent gave a harsh bark of laughter, rolling her eyes at him.

"Sir, that fluke shot you made at the cockatrices was the _only _time you weren't doing something wrong. I don't appreciate being kissed, by the way; you're not my type."

The entire contents of Jun's torso suddenly felt like they had hit his stomach like a rock. Blanching, Jun's eyes bugged out in surprise and he went, "What?"

* * *

"Oh, _God_ - I mean I just - Kat, oh _hell_ ... !"

"I _thought _I told you the shower was _occupied_," growled the female SPARTAN. The tiny, makeshift base the SPARTANs had temporarily stopped at was more Spartan than the SPARTANs themselves. Consisting of a kitchen and the men's bedrooms crammed together, the women's quarters and the bathrooms crammed on the other side of the building, it had been erected as a miniature "rest stop" for troops passing by. For that day and the next, Noble Team was to remain their on their way to their next objective, and had to suck up and live with the most awkward arrangements one could imagine. Now, Jun and Kat were the victims of such arrangements.

"_Get out_," snarled Kat, glaring at Jun with the iciest gaze their side of the planet's polar caps. Red-faced, Jun made a choking sound that had been an attempt at clearing his throat. Unfortunately, as soon as he turned around, Carter was in front of him with the dirtiest look Jun had ever seen. After starting a day finding ants in his cooked powdered eggs (and consequently choking on them in surprise), why did he have to suffer through nearly seeing his comrade naked?

"Is there a problem here?" Carter asked, cool-faced in form in all but the eyes. Jun shook his head rapidly.

"N-no sir! Not at all!" said Jun, the sniper's voice a few notes higher than it should have been. He quickly muttered, "Good day to you Commander," before scurrying away like a rat into its hole, the blood rushing in his ears and his face turning redder as he walked. It didn't help that, nearby, some of the male marines on their way to the bathrooms were pointing and snickering at him. Jun was too humiliated and focused on getting away to throw some sort of disciplinary action back at them.

* * *

_This definitely ranks with that time I nearly walked in on Kat in the shower._

"Ma'am, forgive me," said Jun, sounding nearly mortified. "I was ... I mean ... ma'am, it had to be whatever painkillers I was on, I swear! I never meant to appear as perverted or dangerous - "

"Then why did you keep muttering those girl's names in your sleep?" said the young woman, smiling knowingly with the smuggest look Jun could remember seeing from someone. "'Oh Kat, oh Six, don't leave me!' Or are they _guys _you were going on about?"

Jun opened his mouth to say something, but all he managed was a squeak. Yes, a squeak. Then, he muttered some incoherent nonsense, turned red as a beet and tried to clear his throat to compose himself. "Uh w-well, it-it-it was just, er ... I mean ... we had nothing going on ... " _Wait, wasn't Kat Israeli? Why did I think she was a spicy Lati - OH HELL NO!_

The adolescent suddenly laughed. "Did you just remember what your girlfriend's figure was like?"

Jun made yet another unmanly choking noise, turning away and wrapping the cotton sheet around himself shamefully. _Damn you male impulses. Damn. You._

* * *

With nothing else to do, Jun had tried to fall asleep again. Rest was beneficial to the body, after all, and not getting enough sleep would do no good for him. His eyes twitched beneath shut lids, and again visions from before came to him._  
_

_He saw a woman fighting, guns shooting. Someone had been shot, and she was panicking. He felt helpless, like he was watching some sort of first-person movie, arms and legs flailing that weren't his own. "__You know, I can feel you twitching every time you hear a gunshot in your head," said the voice. "You're terrified of this stuff, aren't you? Things just don't feel right, do they? I know how it feels, buddy. I know you're really messed up, but you have to see this, have to hear it."_

"I don't have to hear anything," _growled Jun, feeling himself glare at the presence even if his eyes were still not his own. _"What do you want from me? Do you realize who I am?"

_Bellowing desperately, the woman he was hearing, feeling and seeing tried to drag her fallen comrade away. Jun fought the urge to reminisce about his own colleagues, and instead tried to get a feeling for what was going on. She was ... thinking about someone, another woman. An employer. A SPARTAN? He couldn't get that word out of his head, and it felt somehow connected to her. _"What on Earth is a SPARTAN doing there?" _Why did he get the feeling this wasn't a SPARTAN-III he was dealing with, either?_

___"She doesn't know that I can follow her, that I can project, or what she doesn't know about what she's capable of. I have so many files on you guys, it's not even funny - how I still escaped with all this intact information, I don't know."_

"Escaped? Are you some sort of turncoat?" _Jun's voice held both curiosity and heat; he didn't know why, as he was a deserter himself. He was no Insurrectionist, though. _"Tell me who you are! Enough with this 'memory' bull, quit playing with my head!"

Maybe he was schizophrenic. Schizophrenics heard voices in their heads, didn't they? Or maybe he just needed some fresh air. Lack of support be damned, the SPARTAN-III pushed himself off the bed, perhaps a bit more quickly than he should have. His head started to spin, Jun nearly falling back onto the bed, grabbing the bowl beside him and splashing water into his eyes. _Focus, Jun. Focus._

Taking a deep breath, moving the bowl of water back before he could marvel at his haggard reflection again, he breathed in. One inhale, one exhale, and then calm - just like his therapist had taught him so long ago. Moving his leg around, he swung it off the bed, then pushed himself upwards with another breath. Out of reflex, he tried to move his other leg, and he tipped forward. With a grunt, he hit the dirt, blinking for a moment before slowly crawling over to the wall. His entire body felt stiff and sore, aching from disuse and the battering he had been taking. He placed his hands on the wall above him, trying to push up with his leg to balance.

After a bit more wobbling, he found his SPARTAN instincts kicking in. His centre of gravity focused itself, and slowly, carefully, he hopped towards the door. He must have looked so silly and strange, resembling a human pogo stick without any sort of cane. He briefly wondered what Carter would think, or what kind of remark Emile would crack, and then paused. Shaking his head, he told himself, _Not now, Jun, _and let the memories dislodge and resettle. Once his head was clear, he turned his attention towards the entrance to his hut.

Instead of an open door, there was a flap of cloth, still as stone as beasts chirped and chittered outside. Judging by the light coming in, it was late afternoon, and Jun suddenly realized just how muggy it was. There was the smell of sweat and medicine in his hut, but outside, he thought he could smell the remnants of meals cooking over fires. His jaw suddenly gave a pang, his mouth wet with hunger, and the next thing he realized was that he was absolutely _starving_. Something to drink probably wouldn't hurt him either.___ When **was **the last time I had something decent to eat?_

He tried again to hop over to the door. Every impact his foot made with the floor sent a wave of hurt through his body, but the new soreness of an empty stomach began to eclipse that. As he moved closer and closer to the door, he felt his muscles begin to burn, his wounds pull and stretch with effort, and it _hurt_. He wouldn't have been so shocked about it if he wasn't an augmented super-soldier in the first place. _What's wrong with me? I should be able to shrug this off easily. _Then again, he couldn't recall the last time he had suffered a vicious mauling/electrocution and necrotic poisoning via a hostile planet's local monstrosities.

He thought it wouldn't make it to the door, but then, a familiar face poked itself in after a series of abrupt footsteps. Grey eyes looked at him with bewilderment, and her dark eyebrows rose again beneath fringe plastered to a sweating forehead. Jun nearly fell backwards from being startled, leaning heavily against the one wall of the hut, breathing as if he had just run a marathon.

"What on _Earth _are you - "

" ... Food," Jun managed to croak out. "Need ... food." His one leg folded beneath him, and he slid down the wall in defeat. The adolescent's eyes followed him to the dirt floor.___  
_


End file.
